PS 3515 
.fl89 P3 
1895 
Copy 1 





THE BLIND I'OET AT WORK 



Pebbles and Shells 



VERSES 



CLARENCE HAWKES 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELBRIDGE KINGSLEY 




PICTURESQUE PUBLISHING CO. 

NORTHAMPTON^ MASS. 

1895 



K... 






Copyright, 1895, By Clarence Hawkes 



THE BRYANT PRINTING COMPANY, 
FLORENCE, MASS. 



DEDICATED 

To my mother who first inspired me to write, and has since 
been my constant helper. 



INTRODUCTION 



"Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 
Love the sunshine and the meadow, 
Love the shadow of the forest. 
Love the wind among the branches. 
And the rain shower and the snow storm. 
And the rushing of green rivers. 
Through their palisades and pine trees, 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries : Listen ! " 

— Longfellow. 



In accordance with the above adjuration, so captivating to 
those to whom the apostrophe is addressed the almoner who 
subscribes himself herewith, at once opens out this new and 
effervescing volume of poems for their perusal, bespeaking from 
the world of letters a sympathetic ear, and consonance with its 
song : for. 

The Book of Nature is ever full of ecstasy and beauty. Its 
leaves turn toward the sun. Its music is eolean. Its fountains 
are pellucid and inexhaustible. From its sources we have to 
draw and drink refreshingly. Perchance some of those who 
read these stanzas — some of those who have trod the sylvan 
paths which Thoreau so much loved, and which Longfellow 
never tired of describing with his pen, may be persuaded to 
link arms with the blind author, and so all saunter on together? 



It has been well said that there are but few great Nature- 
lovers ; that is strictly speaking, whose souls are in attune with 
the Creator's : but there have been a sufficient few to stamp 
their personality on the regions which they have animated. 
Thoreau's country, simple as it is, plain in its features, rough 
in its contour sometimes, is lovable because Thoreau has been 
there. We love the sods and the brown leaves which his feet 
have pressed. The wildwood precincts are hallowed by his 
memories. Men die, voices fail, and sentiment decays. Catbirds 
which are melodious in June squawk in August. Nevertheless, we 
love them all, birds and human kind, for what they were, and 
for what they have made their little spots of earth ; and so, 
when the Hadley poet sings, we love him too. A quiet bit 
of country under an observant eye can be made to yield a 
store of happiness. Dudley Warner wheeled his settee around 
the garden-oak, to follow the sunshine or the shade, until he 
wore a path in the grass. N. P. Willis wrote winsome letters 
firom under a bridge. And now, herewith, a vista opens before 
us down the forest lane. Methinks 1 hear the muffled drum 
beat of a partridge in the spruce. "Listen!" We feel already 
an impulse to proceed. Come with the poet ! He will not 
sing in vain. 

Our favorite Eugene Field is wont to dwell with sentimental 
fondness upon the memories of his dear Hampshire Hills : the 
old homestead, the cow pasture, the yearling colt, the watering 
trough, the deserted mill, the little red school house, and the 
playmates of his youth. But his reveries are liable to start a 
tear or draw his readers off into overgrown lanes and solitary 
corners, while Hawkes' themes, which bubble and flow from 
the self-same hillsides, are for the most part sparkling, treating 
of the ecstasies of the present hour. Sun pictures they are, 



indeed, and all the brighter, apparently, for being physiologically 
developed in the dark ! He says himself : 



U V 



Tis not for wealth I sing my simple lays, \ 
Or e'en for fame, or for the critic's praise, 
But for the joy of feeling and of living 
All that 1 say, and for the joy of giving." 

The outburst is spontaneous and continuous. Perhaps it is 
because he is so young? And so we find his treble keyed 
to the notes of the bluebird. He twines his lute with the 
flowers that bloom in the spring and the clematis which climbs 
up over the porch. In the sunny corner he weaves his webs 
of fancy, while he inhales the sweet aroma which lures the 
insect tribes. In his mind's eye he watches them, as they flit 
from anther to corolla, and following after, gathers poesy from 
each bloom. Forsooth, it is a blessed thing to have no eyes, 
and so shut out the hideous things of earth ! 

Na'theless, the mind will not permit the material senses to 
dwell always in Elysium. Whenever the imagination strays 
into the Valley of the Dark Shadow, as it must sometimes, it 
conjures up all sorts of sombre themes ; and on such occasions 
the vagrant muse emits an undertone like the rumble of water 
in a deep cavern. It is then the poet writes dramatically of 
battle fields and carnage in which he has had no part, and of 
chimeras which he has never seen. Ah ! this discerning with 
the spiritual eye ! who shall fathom it ? Biologists are puzzled. 
But are not these mysterious lucubrations which so much sur- 
prise us, really the outcome of the divine nature which is in 
man ? scintillations of omniscience, as it were, which we are 
told is an attribute of the immortal world ? Does Drummond 



inform us exactly where the natural and the spiritual meet and 
blend ? 

It was my good fortune to be domiciled during the summer 
of 1893 under the same venerable rooftree with my blind young 
friend whose all seeing Muse has inspired this book of poems. 
1 have touched elbows with him while we strolled under the 
spreading elms which double line the main thoroughfare of 
historic Hadley, and marvelled as we walked, to discover that 
his perception was in some respects more acute than mine ; 
especially on pitch-dark nights, when I had to depend upon his 
subtle acumen to avoid obstacles which my natural eye could 
not perceive ! He says the air seems more dense when objects 
intervene. And so it is that he recognizes open spaces and solid 
bodies like houses, trees and telegraph poles, as he passes along ; 
or persons as they approach, on foot or in vehicles, even at 
considerable distances. He has correct ideas of locality and asso- 
ciated landmarks, and an apprehension of dangerous proximities, 
seldom stumbling over obstacles, or into a hole. In fact, 
throughout his everyday life there is a constant manifestation of 
psychical phenomena which it will be useless to attempt to 
account for until we come to realize that the carnal envelope 
with its five so-called senses is actually a hindrance rather than 
a help to a free operation of the spiritual energy. 

In the case of Clarence Hawkes, he seems to possess the 
gift of clairvoyance. He easily discovers articles mislaid ; 
reads character with correctness by a grasp of the hand ; 
and when introduced to strangers will size up their height, 
weight, features, age, and state of health, as soon as he 
shakes hands with them. He knows when chairs and tables 
are removed from their wonted places without having to ascertain 
by feeling for them, and he can tell when people are in the 



room and how many there are even when perfect silence is 
preserved. No meteorological changes escape his notice. Fair 
weather cheers him and dull weather depresses him, more than 
it does most of those who see. He identifies the birds by 
their chirps and carols, the flowers by their odors, shrubs by 
their leaves, trees by their bark, and fishes by their shape and 
fins. He is a critical musician and a piano tuner, plays chess, 
works a type-writer, keeps scores of ball games, and travels 
all over the country without a companion. Few habitues of 
the mountain streams which thread his native hills in western 
Massachusetts are more deft in casting a fly or worm, or 
handling a trout. Most remarkable of all, he has discovered 
that the gamut is prismatic and that sounds have color. 
Middle C, he says, is deep red, and each ascending note 
grows lighter by degrees until the highest becomes white ; 
while the lower tones are graded in darker shades till the 
very lowest shows black. 

Mr. Hawkes received a four years' course of instruction at the 
Perkins Institute in Boston. His study of elocution at that time 
has fitted him for the lecture platform which he adorns. He 
has also been a successful magazine writer. His poem " Erosion " 
took the fourth prize among two thousand competitors for the 
prizes offered by the Magazine of Poetry this year. His younger 
brother, it is due to say, has been his constant help as reader 
and amanuensis for several years. 

It is half a century since the literary world possessed a blind 
poet. Percival of New Haven was the last. But Percival had 
not the refined intellectuality of the author of this volume. As 
yet it is too soon to define his position among the literati ; 
but if "Pebbles and Shells" are an index, the Blind Poet of 
New England is destined to occupy a high place among the 



great bards of America. The merits of some part of its con- 
tents have been so signal as to elicit an autograph letter of 
approval from Hon. Robert T. Lincoln, ex-Secretary of the Navy. 

Charles Hallock. 



CONTENTS 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Eight Engravings directly from Nature by Elbridge Kingsley. 

The Blind Poet at Work. " The Mountain to the Pine." " In the 

Wood." Lookout Mountain. " Sunshine and Shadow." 

"Where There's a Pond with Lily Pads." 

' ' The Deserted Homestead. " ' ' The 

City of the Dead." 



Introduction 



Biographical Sketch, 



POEMS OF NATURE 



PAGE 

In the Wood 17 

Where Dwells the Spirit of Poesy? 18 

The Desert ■■ 19 

Dawn 19 

Twilight 20 

The Glacier 21 

Elegy at the Birthplace ot Bryant 21 

Pebbles and Shells 24 

The Hurricane ' 25 

Song of the Brook 25 

Infinity 27 

The Hangbird's Nest 28 

'Tis March 28 

The Bluebird 3° 

The Mayflower 30 

The Cliff and the Sea 31 

Pebbles and Shells 33 

Sweet May! Come Back Again. . . 34 

Morning on the River 35 

Springtime in Old Hadley 36 

Communion with Nature 36 

Sweet Claribel 38 

Two Mourners 39 

Two Winds 39 

A Pastel in Verse 40 

Pebbles and Shells 4^ 

By Field and Lane 42 

The Mountain to the Pine 43 



PAGE 

June and October 43 

Noonday in Summer 44 

By Hill and Vale 45 

The Mountain and the Stream 45 

Pebbles and Shells 46 

At Nature's Feet 47 

Niagara 47 

Little Things 47 

To an Artist at Her Easel 48 

The Harvest 48 

Song of the Robin 49 

October 5° 

The Last Fair Day 50 

Autumnal Hopes 51 

Pebbles and Shells 52 

New England Winter S3 

The Whip-poor-will 55 

The Frozen Stream t . 57 

The Flicker 57 

Pictures on the Pane 58 

Why ? 59 

The Sunset 59 

Pebbles and Shells 60 

The North Star 61 

A Winter's Night 61 

After the Storm 61 

A Haven 62 

The Circle of the Golden Year. ... 63 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 



PAGE 

How " Fighting Joe " Hooker 

took Lookout Mountain 69 

A Prisoner in Chains 71 

The Living Dead 72 

How Massa Linkum Came 72 

La Gillotine 80 

Reveille Song 81 



PAGE 

That Last Wild Charge at Get- 
tysburg 83 

Rebel and Patriot 87 

Who Won Marengo? 88 

Our Flag 9i 

The Battle of Bunker Hill 91 



POEMS OF LOVE 



PAGE 

The Gipsy Lass 99 

Sunshine and Shadow icx> 

Thine Eyes loi 

Love's Index 102 

Pebbles and Shells 103 

Watching and Waiting 104 

To My Lady Sleeping 106 

There is Beauty 106 

A Boutonniere 107 

Only a Slender Graven Band 107 

To a Watch 109 

Pebbles and Shells no 

I Loved Thee So m 

One Memory m 



PACK 

Pygmalion to Galatea 112 

A New Blown Rose 114 

The Poet's Love 114 

Sweet Smiling Lips 115 

Love or Gold 116 

The Rose and the Thorn 116 

At Devotion 117 

Boating on the Lake 117 

Playing Tennis 118 

Yes or No 118 

If I But Had the Key 119 

The Ball Dress 119 

The Fisher-Maiden 120 

A Portrait of My Lady 121 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



PAGE 

All About Frogs 127 

Shadows 128 

How Tommy Walked on the 

Water 128 

The Buttercup 130 

All About Girls 130 

All About Boys 132 



PAGE 

Playing House 133 

How Santa Claus Came Down 

the Chimney 135 

A Wish 136 

The Sunbeam and the Shadow. ... 137 
Confessions of a Street Gamin 139 



POEMS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND 



PAGE 

The Deserted Homestead 149 

Gettin' Hum 156 

Song of the Ploughman 159 

Bilin' Sap 162 

Ma's Posy Bed 166 



PAGE 

Song of the Woodsman 168 

How Be Yer ? 171 

A Law of Nature 171 

Vanity 172 

Our Sins 172 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



PAGE 

The City of the Dead 175 

The Guerdon of Song 176 

Tears of Angels 176 

Pain's Recompense 177 

Pebbles and Shells 178 

A Fable in Art 179 

Satisfied 179 

The Poet's Joy 180 

Amplius 180 

The Soul of Art 181 

A Heart of Gold 182 

Pebbles and Shells 183 

Gethsemane 184 

The Hidden Life 184 

Asleep 185 

Album Leaves 186 

Life is a Day 187 



PAGE 

The Broken Harp 187 

Pebbles and Shells 188 

The Poet's Art 189 

Homeward Bound 189 

The Tower of Silence 190 

The Noblest Thing of All 192 

The Road to Fame 192 

Pebbles and Shells 193 

The Midshipmite 194 

Pebbles and Shells 202 

A Query 203 

The Stream of Life 203 

Broken Rails 204 

To Paderewski Playing 204 

Upon the Heights 205 

True Riches 206 

Pebbles and Shells 207 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

FROM THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY 

Clarence Hawkes, better known as the "Blind Poet of New 
England/^ was born in Goshen, Mass., December i6th, 1869. 
When nine years of age, he met with an accident while 
returning from school, which culminated in the amputation of 
one leg. When thirteen years of age while out hunting he 
was accidentally shot by his companion and both eyes were 
injured. 

After undergoing several severe operations in hopes of 
regaining his sight, this hope was abandoned and at the age 
of fifteen he entered the Perkins Institution for the Blind. 
Here in addition to the regular course, he studied music and 
piano tuning, and was graduated after four years, taking the 
last two years' work in one. The following year he returned 
to the school for a post-graduate course, and at the same time 
began the study of law and oratory with teachers from Boston 
Colleges. After six months of arduous study his health gave way 
beneath the strain and he returned home to his parents, then 
located at Cummington, Mass. 

One year was then spent in recruiting, and at the age of 
twenty-one Mr. Hawkes went upon the platform as a pnblic 
lecturer, and at the same time began writing short stories and 
poems for local newspapers. Since that time he has written 
three hundred poems and over fifty short stories and sketches, 



and lectured in nearly all parts of New England. He is at 
present a contributor to over a score of the high class period- 
icals. Mr. Hawkes travels alone on his lecture trips and gets 
about with the greatest ease. He is a base-ball and football 
enthusiast, a skillful fisherman and an accomplished chess player, 
while one of his chief amusements is to visit a picture gallery. 



POEMS OF NATURE 



IN THE WOOD 

On woody mount, in mossy dell, 
Who hath not felt that magic spell 

That steals o'er heart and brain, 
A sweet delight that ebbs and flows 
As freely as the zephyr blows, 

Or falls the summer rain. 

How well I know its every mood — 
That gentle spirit of the wood ! 

That bids all sorrow cease ; 
A subtle something in the air 
That softly steals away all care, 

And fills the soul with peace. 

It lives and breathes in every flower, 
It whispers in the leafy bower 

Where drowsy insects drone ; 
It rises into sweetest swells 
Where the sequestered veery dwells 

And chants his love alone. 

It bursts into a mighty roar 

When winter sweeps the forest hoar 

With howling hurricane ; 
It murmurs low in brooklet flood, 
And smiles in every bursting bud 

When spring comes back again. 



17 



When autumn lights her crimson flame 
What artist would not give his fame 

To paint so rich and rare ? 
When winter robes the firs in white, 
Resplendent in the morning light 
What jewels tremble there ! 

How soft the wind of summer eves 
That gently whispers in the leaves 

Of lordly forest trees ? 
How wild the whirling tempest's breath 
That wails the dirge of summer's death 

In magic minor keys ! 

Ah, Nature ! wrap thy dreamy shade 
About the life that thou hast made, 

And let me slumber long ! 
Thine echoes softly, sweetly roll 
Through hidden chambers of the soul. 

And teach the poet song. 

WHERE DWELLS THE SPIRIT OF POESY ? 

Where dwells the gentle soul of poesy ? 
Upon the cloudy rifts of the rainbow skies. 
Deep hidden in some maiden's love-lit eyes. 
Or at the bottom of the rolling sea, 
Far down in sunless caves of mystery? 

i8 



Or doth her voice in sweetest accents rise, 
From bird, or brook, or is it in the cries 
The wild wind wakes upon the lonely lea ? 

The soul of poesy is everywhere, 

Unto the eyes and ears of him who sings. 

And all the world is filled with wondrous things, 

To him whose soul reflects the beauties there. — 

There is no thing so mean the worlds among, 

That is not mete to grace the poet's song. 

THE DESERT 

Boundless, changeless, and cruel as the sea, 
With brazen skies and suffocating air. 
With burning rocks and sand, and blinding glare, 
And silent ether, heavy with despair. 
Stretching away e'en to infinity. 

DAWN 

Slowly the waning stars above grow dim, 

Flicker and pale, like sparks that disappear ; — 

Far in the east, the cold horizon's rim 

Softens a shade as dawn of day draws near. 

Then comes a flush, a soft, pale crimson streak, 
That warms and mellows as the young day 
grows 



19 



Until it burneth like a maiden's cheek, 
Or deeper like the crimson of the rose. 

But higher still the day's avenging fire 
Streams o'er the ramparts of the flying night, 
Flooding the world with swift effulgent light, 

Waking a thousand songs from Nature's lyre; 
And then the great sun rolls his golden car 

Up from the east and drives the night afar. 

TWILIGHT 

After the sun goes down into the west 

And day's last glowing embers slowly die, 
And fades the glory of the sunset sky, 

There comes an hour of all the day the best. 

The twilight hour, when cares are laid to rest ; 
Then o'er the fields deep cooling shadows lie ; 
No restless zephyr stirs the sleeping rye, 

And all the little birds have sought their nest. 

Softly the night comes creeping o'er the land, 
Folding the earth in cool refreshing shade. 
Moistening each thirsty flower and leaf and 
blade. 
With gentle dew, distilled by heaven's hand ; 
So swift it comes, that, e'er they drink their fill, 
The calm night reigns on field, and wood and 
hill. 



THE GLACIER 

Softly sliding, slipping slowly down, 

Each, moment farther from the mountain's crown 

The glacier comes; — and so the human will 

That retrogrades, each hour gets lower still. 

Until at last, beside the mountain's base 

We scarce can recognize the old-time face. 

ELEGY AT THE BIRTHPLACE OF BRYANT 

Like pilgrims to the shrine we climbed the hill 
To view the spot where Nature's bard was 
born. 
To get perhaps a momentary thrill 

From "classic ground," or from the summer 
morn. 

It was "the month when earth and heaven vie, 
Of balmy air, and tender bursting buds. 

Above the deep cerulean of the sky, 

Below, the verdure of the fields and woods. 

We heard the south wind stir the half -grown corn, 
The babbling of a brooklet fleeing fast ; 

And low of kine upon the breezes borne. 

And song of birds, that caroled as we passed ; 

We saw the vastness of the cloudless dome, 
The endless beauty of the verdant earth ; 

And on a distant hill, the summer home, 
And at our feet, the scene of Bryant's birth. 



But now no dwelling crowns the cellar wall, 
For, long ago, its beams and rafters fell — 

Only a marble shaft, not broad or tall. 
Amid the solitude stands sentinel. 

And now, no children's merry shout is heard, 
That sound of yore that cheered the poet's 
heart 

Yet still there comes the '' lilting " of a bird, 
And one wild rose has not forgot the spot. 

There is no trace of footsteps on the lawn, 
No vestige of the well-worn gravel path, — 

Even the rustic gate and fence are gone, 
So time obliterates the scars of earth. 

And he, the noblest of that happy throng, 
That gaily gathered here in years of yore. 

The fair, the brave, the high-souled, and the 
strong. 
Is gone, and earth shall see his face no more. 

Only the sweep of deep eternal hills. 

Frescoes of earth, against the dreamy sky. 

The reverent soul with awe and rapture fills, 
Unchanged since when it cheered the poet's 
eye. 

And can it be that all which he has said. 

The works of years, will fade away like this? 



That, one by one, the burning lines will fade, 
Until the eye discerns but emptiness? 

Ah, no ! 'twas not with blocks of wood he 
wrought. 

But with the hard-hewn rocks of solid truths 
Building them high into the temple. Thought, 

Where they are mortared in eternal youth. 

And they shall stand, until the human heart 
To Nature's simple song no longer thrills, 

Years after men forget this quiet spot. 

Far up amid the dreamy Hampshire hills. 



23 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

god's miracles 

Why talk of wondrous miracles of yore, 

When June comes whisp'ring at thy lattice 

door, — 
Are not the springing grass and op'ning flowers 
God's miracles through all the summer hours? 

GREAT AND SMALL 

The grain of dust that dances in the sun 

Obeys that law that guides the heavenly 
spheres. 

And all the stellar bodies, one by one, 

Go swinging round, obedient to the years. 

ENVIRONMENT 

A wondrous shell was thrown up from the deep, 
Where it had lain long centuries asleep — 
But, in a day, the sunlight and the dew 
Had cracked and stained this shell of wondrous 
hue. 

MY AVIARY 

My aviary is the deep green wood, — 
I would not cage its songsters if I could. 
Sweeter the song of one wild bird to me 
Than all the notes of sad captivity. 



24 



THE HURRICANE 

The azure sky grows green like ocean's brine, 
The listless air is hot and strangely still, 
And yet there conies a momentary thrill, 
As of the coming storm, to give a sign ; 
The lowering clouds have gathered into line. 
Their dark array enfolds the distant hill, 
And on the air, so suddenly grown chill. 
There comes the moaning of the rocking pine ; 
Then clouds of leaves and dust sweep down the 

lane, 
Close followed by the howling hurricane. 

Swift forked lightnings twist their snake-like 

forms 
Among the clouds, and fill the sky with dread ; 
Deep throated thunders bellow overhead 
And all things bow before the King of Storms. 

SONG OF THE BROOK 

I come from afar up the mountain, 

The favorite child of the snow ; 
I leap from a laughing wee fountain. 

And fall in a basin below. 

By churning and boiling and gushing, 
I pierce through a dark mountain wall. 

And into the sunlight come rushing. 
To fling far a beautiful fall. 

25 



Now down a long stairway for giants, 

From basin to basin I spring ; 
All foaming, and roaring defiance, 

My spray to the breezes I fling. 

Then into a peaceful green meadow 

I lazily, placidly flow, 
And thence to the woodlands' dark shadow 

With laughter and dancing I go. 

I sparkle and bubble with pleasure, 

As over the pebbles I slide ; 
I murmur a musical measure 

As under the willows I glide. 

In springtime I water the flowers 
That nod their sweet faces to me ; 

In summer I drink up the showers. 
And hurry them off to the sea. 

When Autumn's rich beauties are dying — 

Then sadly I murmur my lay ; 
When o'er me the snow bank is lying, 

I gurgle the winter away. 

I ripple, I dimple, I bubble — 
I chatter by day and by night. — 

My laughter will banish your trouble, 
My song is a giver's delight. 



26 



Don't stop me to idle or dally, 
My life-work is ever to flow ; 

The meadow, the mill-wheel and valley, 
Are waiting to greet me below. 

I pause not in lakelet or river, 
I rest not in woodland or lea. 

Still onward and onward forever 
I flow to the boundless blue sea. 



INFINITY 

I took swift wings, that knew no time no space^ 
And fled unto the utmost star that shines, — 
E'en to the end of things, that man divines, 

Yet cannot see, then turned my eager face 

To view the sight — to find some resting place 
For human faith — a revelation grand ; 
But saw the countless stars on every hand 

That lit great planets in their endless race. 

Again I sought a star remote and dim 
That flickered on the far horizon's rim. 

But saw the same deep, star-bespangled blue ; 
Yet once again I fled for countless years 
Through endless deserts of unnumbered spheres, 

But with each hour the stellar pageant grew. 



27 



THE HANGBIRD'S NEST 

Fashioned so fair, this small inverted dome, 
With bits of moss, and grass, and strings, 
And underneath the brooding wings. 
Four tender, tiny, gaping things. 
And near the nest the one who sings. 

Ah ! heart of mine, is this not truly home? 

'TIS MARCH 

'Tis March and far o'er hill and dale, 
With rush, and roar, the winter gale 

Through bitter cold is flying ; 
While down beneath the frozen snow, 
The fairest flowers that ever blow 

In winter graves are lying. 

No sunshine melts the icy hand, 
That still in grip-like iron band 

The tend'rest life is holding, 
Unwarmed by any parting light, 
The dreary mantle of the night 

About the earth is folding. 

Nay ! fret thee not — the day will come 
When from their far-off sunny home, 

Will come the Southern breezes, 
To melt away the ice and snow, 
And whisper to the flowers below — 

" Dread March no longer freezes." 
28 



Then birds will sing in all the bowers, 
And softest clouds and fairest flowers 

Will whisper joys unspoken ; 
All Nature'll sing a sweeter song, 
Because the winter has been long, 

And now his chains are broken. 

'Tis March, and o'er my weary soul 
Misfortune's storm with ceaseless roll, 

Its onward march is sweeping ; 
While far beneath the lapse of years 
Long buried there, with many tears, 

My fondest hopes are sleeping. 

No sunshine ushers in the day, 
No sunbeams fall across the way 

To cheer a heart that's weary ; 
And still the darkest storm-clouds lie 
Across the azure of my sky, 

And all is dark and dreary. 

Be strong, m.y heart ! I know some day 
That all thy clouds shall roll away, 

By fortune's breezes driven ; 
Then hope shall scatter all thy fears ; 
A sunny smile shall dry thy tears, 

x\nd thou shalt see but heaven. 



29 



THE BLUEBIRD 

Fair herald of the coming spring" 
That fearest not the winter's snow, 
The friendly fields begin to show, 

haste thy gaily-painted wing 

1 long to hear thee carolling 

Upon the tree-top, sweet and low ; 

For when I hear thy song, I know 
That soon the robin too will sing. 
And all the merry woods will ring 

With Springtime's well remembered song ; 

That flowers will wake from slumber long 
And lift their fragrant offering — 
Didst know what joy thy song would bring, 
Dear little harbinger of spring? 

THE MAYFLOWER 

A beautiful floweret was sleeping 

Down deep 'neath the grasses and snow ; 

The chains of the winter were keeping 
Its color and fragrance below. 

But springtime, with softest of breezes. 
With laughing and smiling all day. 

Soon shamed the dark season that freezes. 
And melted the snowdrops away. 



30 



Then down came a cold April shower, 
And dashing the floweret with spray, 

It parted the folds of her bower. 

And showed her the light of the day. 

Oh, sweetly then smiled the fair sleeper, 
And op'ning her eyes to the light, 

Her beauties grew wider and deeper. 

The smile on her face grew more bright. 

Our sorrows are falling like snowflakes, 
Our pleasures are melting like snow ; 

Kind nature ne'er thinks of our heart-aches ; 
A flower is sleeping below. 

She melts us with showers of trouble, 
(For life hath its seasons of rain) ; 

Our tears are the fountains that bubble 
In deserts of sorrow and pain. 

She rouses the soul that is sleeping 
With showers so chilling and cold ; 

New treasures she gives to its keeping ; 
The beautiful petals unfold. 

THE CLIFF AND THE SEA 

Like some imperial fortress dark and lone. 
With frowning walls, the cliff o'erhung the sea ; 
And little waves caressed it tenderly, 

Yet each advance was coldly backward thrown, 



Then angry grew the sea, and on the stone 
Heaped mighty waves that struck with thun- 
derous shock — 
Yet all in vain they beat upon the rock 

And wind and wave subsided with a moan. 

Then spake the sea in deep and sullen roar 
That echoed far along the rocky strand, 

Behold ! My waves shall break upon this shore, 
And I will lash the cold repellant land, 

Until this cliff that proudly towers me o'er. 
Beneath my feet shall be but grains of sand. 



32 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

THE PHEBE 

Calling its plaintive note from post and tree 
The Phebe comes, nor has he other range ; 

And this poor song is like a life to me 

That moves in one dull round, and cannot 
change. 

THE PITCHER PLANT 

With parted petals to receive the dew. 
And sun and rain this flower in beauty grew ; 
And so must we unfold onr hearts to hold 
The sun and shower of wisdom manifold. 

THE RAINBOW 

Oft when the heavens are darkest with the storm 
A wondrous rainbow in the sky appears. 
Oft when the heart is heaviest with fears, 
Hope riseth up with bright irradiant form. 

FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER 

Four-leafed clover, I do not ask of thee 
To bring me gold, or bright gems from the sea, 
But rather bring me wealth of heart and mind ; 
These are the treasures that I fain would find. 



33 



SWEET MAY! COME BACK AGAIN 

Sweet May ! Sweet May ! come back again ; 

'Tis long since thou hast smiled. 
Bring back thy gentle showers of rain, 

Thy fragrant flowerets wild. 

Bring back the laughter of thy rills, 

The hum of drowsy bees, 
The verdant freshness of the hills, 

The bud bespangled trees. 

Bring back thy songsters' liquid flood 

Of music soft and low. 
Bring back the sweet arbutus bud 

That blossoms down below. 

Bring back each harbinger of spring 

Of happy summer day. 
Let every voice of nature sing — 

'' I would 'twas always May." 

Sweet May ! Sweet May ! come back again ; 

'Tis long since thou hast smiled. 
Bring back thy sweet and silent reign 

Of beauties soft and mild. 

Bring back thy converse's gentle flow ; 
Those happy laughing eyes ; 



34 



upon thy cheeks that tinted glow, 
The blush of evening skies. 

Bring back the sunshine of my heart, — 

That smile upon my face. 
Bring back each gentle winning art, 

That made thee queen of grace. 

Bring back each harbinger of bliss. 

And scatter all my fear. 
Of all the seasons, love I this. 

When thou, sweet May, art here. 

MORNING ON THE RIVER 

'Tis morning on the river broad and deep, 
The fair Connecticut so dear to me. 

That through the Hadley meadows slow doth 
creep, 
Upon its journey to the distant sea, 

A silver mist like to a fleecy cloud 

Is floating where the fair-faced lilies hide, 

And to its verdant bank the mountains crowd 

To view their grandeur in the sleeping tide. 

Now morning sunlight breaks upon the mist, 
Faint seen at first but ever growing clear. 
Like to the hidden smile behind a tear. 
Until the tender beams have gently kissed 
Away each trace of tears from Nature's eyes 
And left her free to smile through cloudless 
skies. 

35 



SPRINGTIME IN OLD HADLEY 

Soft is the air when first the robin sings 
Among the budding elms, and far he flings 
The bold triumphant strain of other days 
Across the field. How changed are all earth's 

ways! 
What floral beauty springs and bursts, and swells 
In all her fields and lanes, and distant dells, 
How birds, and brooks and bees, the whole day 

long 
Flood all the walks of earth with happy song ! 
What subtle sweetness fills the fields and woods 
When Nature recreates her solitudes ; 
And in the street, upon the giant trees. 
The young leaves rustle in their ecstacies ; 
Awhile the elms, by springtime scantly drest, 
Stand grandly forth, half hidden, yet confessed. 

COMMUNION WITH NATURE 

I hold this true — it is not solitude 
Alone to wander through the trackless wood, 
To pierce the deepest dells of spruce and pines, 
Where overhead the fair clematis twines. 
Where 'neath your feet the soft moss sinks and 

swells, 
More fair than Persian rugs or rich Brussels ! 
To climb the rugged steeps where stately stand 
Like giant sentries to the lower land 

36 



The lordly oaks, more spreading- than the pine, 
Upon whose trunks the wild grape clusters shine ; 
What sky-born palace of the ancient time, 
Relumed by limnel brush, or poet's rhyme, 
Can match this peerless palace of the trees ? 
With roof and dome and tower and graceful frieze 
All fashioned with a patience and an art. 
Through centuries, that wrought each tiny part. 

Let rich men boast their beds of softest down, 
Upon the woodland moss I lay me down, 
Where flowers and ferns and grass all interlace. 
To make my weary head a resting place. 
There far above me for a frescoed wall. 
The woodland green is stretching over all. 
Save where the friendly branches parting high, 
Have left a place to view the summer sky. 
From bough to bough the nimble squirrel springs. 
And in each tree a plumed minstrel sings ; 
Among the fallen leaves are busy ants. 
Rich treasures to the mind that knows their 

haunts. 
And loves to watch them build their little domes. 
And blend in one a thousand happy homes ; 
Or see the spider spin his rainbow gauze, 
Obedient to some hidden unknown laws. 

But if I lacked companions in the wood, 
The forest stream would woo me to its flood, 



37 



For like this torrent fleeing from its home, 

Impatient of delay I love to roam ; 

Down stony steeps to plunge in mad career, 

Or walk beside it, running deep and clear. 

To saunter with it through the woodland glen, 

And dream apace afar from haunts of men, 

But ever onward to the boundless sea. 

To enter there and know its mystery. 

SWEET CLARIBEL 

Sweet Claribel, we called her Nature's child, 
Because she was a child of many moods ; 
She loved the flowers, the meadows, and the 
woods. 

But most of all the birds that caroled wild. 

Her azure eyes, were ever deep and mild 

Like summer skies ; her lips were cherry buds ; 
She laughed more sweetly than the brook that 
floods 

The mill, and all was sunshine when she smiled. 

To-day she sleeps, and o'er her lowly grave 
The cactus blooms, and fair palmettos wave, — 

But does she know the skies are wondrous blue ? 
It cannot be she heard what robin said, 
Or sees the flowers that cluster round her head ; 

She'd wake, and come up laughing if she knew. 

38 



TWO MOURNERS 

My golden robin built his nest 
Upon a shady linden tree, 
Then sought afar o'er wood and lea 

And found the bird he loved the best. 

I built a cottage for my guest, 
A little maid who cared for me. 
And there we lived so happily. 

Her golden head upon my breast. 

The wind grew wroth one summer night 
And tost the nestlings from the tree, 
And wrecked my cottage by the sea. 

And crushed the flower of my delight ; — 
Another nest fronts wind and rain, 
But I shall never build again. 

TWO WINDS 

The north wind breathes his bitter stinging 

breath. 
And all the little flowers fall down in death ; 
The south wind whispers over field and plain, 
And every tender bud comes back again. 



39 



A PASTEL IN VERSE 

Golden sunlight on a rye-field softly 

Gleaming when the summer day is waning ; 

Bathing all the field in heavenly glory, 

Flooding it with mellow amber light. 

Far away the verdure of the hilltops 

Rises up to meet the summer sky, 

And the great white ships thai sail the heavens 

Drift against them but they do not perish 

Like the ships that sail the treacherous sea. 

Among the nodding heads the busy bee 

Is searching for the sweetness of the flowers. 

Just as mortals look for joy and gladness 

Among the brambles in the field of life. 

Here a swath of golden grain is lying 

Telling of the farmer's life of toiling, 

And the children in the distant farmhouse 

That he labors here so hard to feed. 

There the grain in graceful stacks is standing, 

Telling of the store that must be gathered 

E'er the winter comes with sleet and snow. 

And these are nature's wondrous fields and skies, 

Her trees, her flowers, her grain fields, and her 

fruit. 
And her richness and her wondrous beauty, 
All are man's and to him freely given. 
He the rightful lord of all creation 
And the highest, noblest work of heaven. 

40 



So he who paints one page from Nature's book 
With Nature's art, has painted God and Heaven. 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

A BREATH 

Out of the garden came a little breeze, 

Rich with the scent of budding flowers and trees ; 

So sweet the breath, that by me idly went, 

My aching heart was filled with sweet content. 

THE SEASONS 

Spring is a laughing girl with azure eyes. 
Summer the dreamy maiden grown more wise, 
Autumn is womanhood, with joy, and pain. 
And Winter age, when life begins to wane. 

THE ICE-FLOE 

The ice-floe drifting from the northern pole, 
But shows a little o'er the rolling seas ; 
So he who thinks he knows life's mysteries, 
But sees a portion of the mighty whole. 

THE AURORA 

Only a flush upon the northern sky, 

Then suddenly the heavens open wide, 

And flames with green and gold, and crimson 

dyed, 
Leap fiercely forth, then slowly sink, and die. 

41 



BY FIELD AND LANE 

Poor is the prince, though Croesus' countless 
gold, 

And all the priceless gems of earth's dark mold. 
Be lavished at his feet, if he ne'er sees 
The beauty of this world of mysteries. 

Rich is the swain beside this man of gold, 

Though poor his purse, his garments torn and old, 
Whose eyes can see, and heart can understand 
The wondrous joys of Nature's lavish hand. 

For 'tis not wealth, or fame, or power, or birth. 
That gives man's soul its heritage of worth, 
It is the mind to grasp, the heart to feel 
The whole of life, its beauty, and its weal, 
To draw pure pleasure sweet for age or youth 
From out the founts of God's eternal truth. 

To live like yonder robin in her nest 
And know that all that happeneth is best. 
To learn a lesson from yon hive of bees. 
That draw their sweetness from the flowers 
and trees. 
To read fair Nature's book on mount and dell. 
And lend thy soul unto her silent spell, 
To feel the law, the truth, the happy plan 
That bindeth Nature to the heart of man. 



42 



THE MOUNTAIN TO THE PINE 

Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood, 
That standeth where no wild vines dare to 
creep. 

Men call thee old, and say that thou hast stood 
A century upon my rugged steep ; 

Yet unto me thy life is but a day. 
When I recall the things that I have seen, — 

The forest monarchs that have passed away 
Upon the spot where first I saw thy green ; 

For I am older than the age of man, 
Or all the living things that crawl or creep. 
Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep ; 

I was the first dim outline of God's plan, — 
Only the waters of the restless sea 
And the infinite stars in heaven are old to 



me. 



JUNE AND OCTOBER 

June and October come to us and reign. 

Abide with us through all the changing year 
And make this earth more fair, this life more 
dear. 
Let summer sunlight flood each darksome plain, 
Let autumn glory deck each lonely lane, 

And all the world be filled with songs of cheer. 
Till life shall be too full for doubt and fear. 

43 



Dark is the heart, and steeped in ceaseless pain 
That cannot smile when June comes back again ; 
Sad is the soul, and lonely are the ways 
That can resist October's dreamy days. 
I love them both, these gentle sisters twain, — 
Sweet, smiling June, without a thought of care. 
And fair October with her chestnut hair. 

NOONDAY IN SUMMER 

The brazen sun is in the zenith sky, 
Its summer heat has scorched earth's shady ways, 
Her verdure withers 'neath its burning rays. 
And fragile flow'rets fade, and droop, and die. 
The cooling winds are e'en too faint to sigh, 
And all the leaves upon the trees are still, 
The busy bee goes droning o'er the hill 
To gather sweetness from the blooming rye. 
The brook still sings its drowsy lullaby, 
And shrill the locust wakes his noonday lay, 
But still the sunflower drinks the burning ray 
And turns its face up fearless to the sky, 
And hollyhocks and poppies look more fair 
Beneath the glamour of the noonday glare. 



44 



BY HILL AND VALE 

Through hill and vale life's winding way is laid 
By stony walks and highways fresh and sweety 
And oft the cruel stones shall cut thy feet 

As one by one life's countless steps are made ; 

And some at noon shall rest them in the shade 
Upon the summit of achievements steep, 
And some at morn shall lay them down to 
sleep, 

When life is fresh, in indolence's cool shade ; 

And some are strong of heart and not dismayed 
By all the dangers of life's varied way, — 
With swift impetuous feet that naught can stay 

They journey on ; and some are sore afraid, — 
But still they hurry on, by hills and vales 
Until the sun goes down and day-light fails. 

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE STREAM 

'* Oh, restless stream, why do you hurry? 
This peaceful world is not for worry ; 
Pray, stop with me and view the scene — 
The tranquil hills, and meadows green. " 

* ' I cannot stop, I flow forever, 
For I must be a mighty river ; 
You ne'er can feel and ne'er can know 
The boundless joy it is to flow. 
So while you stand, majestic, grand, 
I hurry along, with ceaseless song 
To ocean's strand." 

45 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

EROSION 

Even the little waves that idly dance 

Against the cliff, will crumble it to sand ; 
And so, with ceaseless toil, the slightest hand 

May wear away the walls of circumstance. 

THE AFTERGLOW 

After the day is done, the passing light 
Sheddeth a halo round the feet of night ; 
So, after death, a noble life may shed 
Soft radiance where they that live must tread. 

nature's palace 

What courts of stone can match the deep green 
wood 
Where verdant oaks and maples spreading 

meet. 
With ferns, and flowers, and mosses for the 
feet, 
And for man's din, sweet Nature's solitude. 

THE LANGUAGE OF THE LEAVES 

When in the deep green woods I idly walk, 
And all the little leaves begin to talk 
Among the branches of the forest trees, — 
I think how filled is earth with mysteries. 

46 



AT NATURE'S FEET 

I love to be a child at Nature's feet. 

And on her mossy footstool sit and dream, 
Awhile the wild wind and the mountain stream 

Delight mine ears with music wondrous sweet. 

I love to note the marvelous conceit 

With which she hides her beauty and her grace, 
And decks with care each lone forsaken place, 

And fills the sea with beauties so replete. 

O, Nature ! fill me with thy sweet delight. 
And let me learn thy matchless minstrelsy, 
The music of the stars, the sky, the sea. 

The peaks, the plains, — that I may sing aright; 
Then will I wake the nations with a song 
That men shall hear and feel and ponder long. 

NIAGARA 

Niagara, sublime, eternal, grand. 
Rolling thy thunderous torrent ceaselessly ; 
Thou art one drop from out the boundless sea, 
That resteth in the hollow of God's hand. 

LITTLE THINGS 

There is no blade of grass but has some power, 
And silently it groweth, hour by hour ; 
There is no life, however mean or small 
But addeth something to God's mighty whole. 

47 



TO AN ARTIST AT HER EASEL 

It was a fair October day, 

The distant hills were gold and brown, 
And yet the heavens could not frown, 

Though Summer's joys had passed away. 

Upon the grass I musing lay, 

And watched an artist's magic skill 
That slowly formed a distant hill ; 

And, in my heart I longed to say, 

If thou couldst paint the eager face, 
The parted lips, the fevered brow, 
The earnest gaze that fronts me now, 

Thy face would surely grow apace, 
I swear it by my truthful pen 
Thy name would be immortal then. 

THE HARVEST 

Behold the golden fields of ripening grain. 
The fair fruition of the sun and rain. 

And man's poor heritage of tears and cares. 

And in the golden grain behold the tares ; 
Poor human tares, — 'tis part of my belief, — 
God will forget and bind you in His sheaf. 



48 



SONG OF THE ROBIN 

Upon the lofty maple tree 

I hear a robin singing — 
His rich and happy melody 

Through all the woods is ringing, — 
Cheer up ! cheer up ! all things clear up, 
We are merry, cherry ! cheery ! 

The sun has slowly sunk to rest, 
The shades of night are falling ; 

And from his bough beside the nest 
The robin still is calling, — 

Cheer up ! cheer up ! all things clear up. 

We are merry, cherry ! cheery ! 

Now one by one the stars appear. 
The evening winds are sighing 

And robin's song of hope and cheer 
Is slowly, gently dying, — 

Cheer up ! cheer up ! all things clear up, 

We are merry, cherry ! cheery ! 

The deepest shades of night have come 

And robin's song is ended, 
But in my heart with doubt and gloom, 

His hope and cheer have blended. 
Cheer up ! cheer up ! all things clear up, 
We are merry, cherry ! cheery ! 



49 



OCTOBER 

October reigns o'er all the dreamy hills — 
Awake my soul, and lift thy voice in praise, 
And sing the glory of autumnal days. 
And voice the gladness of the heart that thrills, 
When to the brim the cup of nature fills. 

Each mountain range is wrapped in dreamy haze 
And through the gentle veil the sun's bright rays 
Are half subdued, and yet the power that chills 
On vine and bush has set its seal in blood 
And far and near the pennons of the wood 
Stream like a conflagration to the sky ; 
Each blade and leaf, each tiny emerald thing 
Unto the pyre has brought its offering 
And laid it there amid the flames to die. 



THE LAST FAIR DAY 

It was the last fair day of all the year, 
Halfway between the realms of heat and cold, 
When days are short and Boreas is bold 
And summer fields and woods are bare and sere : 
But all that there was left of warmth and cheer 
This day had caught within its fleecy fold 
Of summer vsky, and o'er the frozen wold 
The lancers of the cold fled back in fear 



50 



Oh ! how the glad sun warmed the frozen earth, 
Making her pulseless heart to beat again, 
Dancing his sunbeams over hill and plain * 
Until it seemed like Summer's second birth, 
But e'er his orb had even time to dim 
The night and cold fell like a pall on him. 

AUTUMNAL HOPES 

In dark December look to spring, 
And learn to hear the robin sing 

Upon his unbuilt nest ; 
In sorrow teach thy lips to say — 
I know this pain will pass away. 

And I will see 'twas best. 



51 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 



TIME 



Time is a bird that wings with ceaseless flight 
Over the land, nor rests by day or night; 
You mark its form against the sky of dawn 
Then dream apace, and night comes softly on. 



THE CLOVER BLOSSOM 

Slender and pale, and hidden in the grass, 
So that you scarce can see it as you pass. 
The clover stands, — but every wild bee knows 
'Tis sweeter far than any blushing rose. 

ROILED 

The placid brooklet ran with limped flood — 
The angry stream grew dark with sticks and 

mud — 
So anger darkens e'en the brightest face 
And takes from fair humanity its grace. 

A LOVER 

The honey-bee, through sunny hours 
Goes courting all the sweetest flowers, — 
Into their hearts he slyly slips 
And steals sweet nectar from their lips. 

52 



NEW ENGLAND WINTER 

Faintly the feeble sun streamed through the gray 

That hung the heavens, and marked the waning 

day, 

Then sank from sight ; we could not see him go , 

Only a sickly streak of yellow glow 

Revealed his path. Then fell the shades of 

night,— 
But not as they are wont, with silver light 

From peaceful stars, or radiance from the moon 
That make the winter night more fair than 
noon ; 
But with dark clouds that wrapped the fields in 

gloom, 
Until the night was dark as Sodom's doom. 

Then woke the wild wind in the leafless trees 
And called the Frost King from his frozen seas, 
And hand in hand, they scoured the frozen 

earth. 
And peeped in at the panes, where joy and 
mirth 
Had gathered round some cosy kitchen hearth ; 
And at the sight the wild wind roared in wrath, 
Awhile the bitter Frost King tried each 

crack, — 
But soon the bright fire drove him panting 
back ; 



53 



Yet still he lingered by the window frame 

And on its smooth glass wrote his mystic name. 

Then through the cellar wall went creeping in, 
To nip the rosy apples in their bin, 
Or freeze the golden pumpkins on the floor, 
With spiteful heart to spoil the winter store ; 
But ever and anon comes back again 
To peep in at the frosty window pane. 
And, if the fire upon the hearth burns low. 
He creeps into the room, and chills it so 
That soon the revelers draw near the fire 
And stir the coals and pile the fuel higher. 
And all this time, the wild wind shrieks and 

groans, 
Or bellows down the chimney top, or moans 
Among the trees, or with a sudden roar, 
Comes rudely knocking at the cottage door. 
Thus goes the night, until on field and town. 
The feathery snow comes softly sifting down. 
Spreading its mantle o'er the field and wood, 
Folding the earth in winter's solitude. 

Then morning breaks, and on the young day's 

cheek 
There comes a flush and then a crimson streak, 
And soon the great sun shining clear and bright 
Mounts o'er the hills and floods the world 
with light. 

54 



How strange the scene, — the winds no longer 

blow 
And quiet reigns ; but how the wind- tossed snow 
Disguises mother earth, until things seem 
To be transfigured by some mystic dream. 
The firs are spotless white and bending low 
Beneath their heavy load of new made snow ; 
The regal elm-trees lift their mighty arms, 
With snow and frost upon their leafless palms 
And stand like giants in the morning light. 
Their shaggy bark half showing through the 
white ; 
Each fence and hedge has caught the feathery 

down— 
The garden gate-post wears a regal crown ; 
The rose-bush too, is loaded by the storm. 
And every shrub has changed its old time form. 

But soon the heavy teams, with boys and men, 

Will come to break the drifted roads again 
And pierce the deepest drifts and pile them high 
And let the merry sleighing party by ; 

For well New England young folks love the 
air. 

The frost, the wind, the cold, the snow's white 
glare 
And all the bitter cold and nipping frost. 
But lends enchantment to the merry coa.st. 



55 



The great sun wheels his course and night 

draws near 
For winter days are short though sharp and 
clear. 
Again the restless wind begins to moan 
Among the trees in cheerless monotone 

And shake the new snow from the loaded 

boughs 
And fill the tracks just broken by the plows. 
Swiftly the shadows lengthen o'er the snow 
And one one by one the constellations show ; 
Then night comes down and earth fantastic 

lies 
Beneath its cold star-gleaming winter skies. 

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 

The soft, deep gloom of night on vale and hill 
Half hid the glories of the summer skies, 
And pearly tears, the dewdrops of the eyes, 
Obscured the dusky forms that lingered still. 
And while I watched, a cry pathetic, shrill, 
As 'twere the voice of some forgotten wrong, 
With three sad notes the burden of the song 
Filled all the night with strains of ' ' Whip-poor- 
will! " 
A simple song beside the lark's mad flight, 
A worthless song of wild, rude minstrelsy, 



56 



But those three notes revealed anew to me 
Life's mystery, its breadth, its depth, its height — 
And yet, I trow he heard the lark that day 
And knew he sang a rude, uncultured lay. 

THE FROZEN STREAM 

The cold wind swept the fields and forest o'er 
And all the little leaves came fluttering down, 
The reeds and grasses turned to sombre brown 
And robin's happy song was heard no more. 

The little streamlet heard the wild wind's roar 
And saw the azure sky grow dark with dread ; 
Then built a palace for his houseless head, 
And sealed it tight and locked the crystal door. 
Gay colored pebbles formed the palace floor. 
And every mystic form of fairy lore 
Was fashioned in that clear transparent dome. 

In stormy days it felt no winds that blew. 

In sunny hours the light of heaven came through 

To cheer the little streamlet in its home. 

THE FLICKER 

Gay crested tenant of the deep wild woods. 
Oft have I heard thee wake these solitudes 
Where quiet loves to dwell, with lightning 
stroke, 

57 



(Holding with clinging claws to elm or oak,) 
Until the echoes of thy sturdy whacks 
Gave back a sound like to the woodsman's axe ; 

While thou didst drive thy beak, with point like 
steel, 

Deep in the wood to find thy morning meal. 

PICTURES ON THE PANE 

The frost gnomes came one Winter's night 

While slumber held its grateful reign, 

And wrote upon my window pane ; 

Then stole away with morning light. 

I sought to read the scroll aright 

Yet had no art to understand 

The meaning of so strange a hand ; 

But when the morning sun grew bright. 

The picture melted into rain 

And then its mystery was plain. 

It was a symbol of man's years, 

That set in colors seeming fair, 

Beneath life's noonday heat and glare 

Oft proves but vanity and tears. 



58 



WHY? 

Along life's walk the shadows fall 
Because the world is full of lio-ht. 
And if the world was not so bright 

The shadows would not come at all. 

THE SUNSET 

Slowly the mighty sun with 'fulgent ray 
Goes sliding down into the crimson west, 
Leaving the embers of the dying day 

Still burning where the ragged cloud-rifts rest ; 
Pauseth a moment on the mountain's line, 

vStaining its verdure like a warrior's breast. 
Then sinks from sight, and mellow after-shine 

Fringes with gold the crimson snow clouds' 
crest. 
Now fades the gorgeous glory of the sky 

And deep cool shadows steal o'er vale and hill, 

Even the trembling aspen's leaf is still 

And nothing stirs the quiet of the night 
Save when the marsh-frog pipes his shrilly cry, 

Or some lone night-bird wings his whirring 
flight. 



59 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

THE STARS 

The stars are as bright in the heavens to-night 
As though they had just been born, 
Instead of as old as the shimmering light 
That broke on creation's morn. 

THE BOBOLINK 

Deep fountain of unstinted song 
That springs and gurgles all day long, 
Thy lilting song is purest art 
For all thy strains are of the heart. 

flora's call 

Come up, come up, my little buds. 
The snow is gone and spring is here. 
The robin sings his song of cheer 
And you must grace the fields and woods. 

ARBUTUS 

Fair fragrant buds that nestle in the grass 

And hide from me so closely as I pass. 

Thou art an emblem of true charity, 

That bends its head and hides that none may see. 

60 



THE NORTH STAR 

Jewel in heaven, where all rare jewels are, 
Night after night thy steady glow we see, 

Would that my soul might find for it a star, 
So fair, so bright, so full of constancy. 

A WINTER'S NIGHT 

It is a cold star-gleaming Winter's night — 
All things are ice-bound like the frozen mill— 
The great white moon comes stalking o'er the hill 
And floods the scene with cold unearthly light ; 
The leafless trees are hung with jewels bright 
And every twig is set with magic skill 
And fringed with frost that speaks the winter's 

chill ; 
The darkling pines are robed in spotless white. 
Their loaded branches nod like warriors' plumes 
And cast their shadows in the forest's glooms ; 
Far in the wood with melancholy moan 
The wind awakes its cheerless monotone 
Then dies away and all is cold and still. 

AFTER THE STORM 

Down from the frozen clouds fell sleet and rain. 
Over the wintry fields and forest hoar 
The wild winds swept with melancholy roar. 

Awhile the frost bedecked the window pane ; 

6i 



At morn the sun resumed his tranquil reign, 
The fair earth smiled through all her frozen 

tears 
And Winter's face revealed his secret fears. 
How gorgeous was the scene, — each field and 
lane 
Was paved with purest pearls and sparkling 

gems. 
The darkling furs were hung with diadems, 
And every leafless vine was fringed w^ith frost ; 
While Phoebus' rays on ice gems strangely 
made 
Revealed their rainbow hues ; all without cost 
The walks of earth like heaven's streets were 
laid. 

A HAVEN 

My life was launched upon a stormy sea, 
Without a pilot for its shallow bark. 
To front the storm, the lightnings, and the dark, 
The winds and tides that breed adversity 
And batter with the waves unceasingly. 
And I have fought the elements until 
The restless sea has worn away my will, 
E'en as it wears the rocks, and conquered me ; 
And now whene'er a lighthouse lifts its form 
Above the outline of the dreamy coast 
While my poor bark is rudely tempest tossed, 



62 



I long to shield me from the cruel storm 
In some fair haven by the peaceful shore 
To cast an anchor till life's storms are o'er. 

"THE CIRCLE OF THE GOLDEN YEAR" 

JANUARY 

The earth is white, the air is sharp and clear, 
When joyous bells ring in the glad New Year; 
With all its joy and grief, the old year's out — 
We look not back, but welcome with a shout 
The glad New Year, for all its days are ours 
To live, to strive, and prove our manhoods' 
powers. 

FEBRUARY 

But when the days begin to show their length, 
Then winter hoar puts forth his utmost strength ; 
Then deeper, and still deeper, falls the snow, 
And fiercer, and still fiercer wild winds blow, 
Until the fields and woods are piled with drifts 
And scarce a day the leaden storm cloud lifts. 

MARCH 

In March the Winter's last wild throes are seen, 
With days of sunlight coming in between — 
A strange commingling blast of heat and cold 
And howling winds that sweep the barren wold, 
The bleakest month of all the varied year, 
But, at its close, the bare brown hills appear. 

63 



APRIL 

Then April comes with sunshine and with 
showers 

To start the buds and wake the sleeping flowers. 
Along the fields there comes a touch of green — 
Upon the trees the bursting buds are seen, 

And bluebirds bright, with robins blithely sing 

And all things feel the thrilling touch of spring. 

MAY 

In May we tread again the pleasant woods 
And search the fields for sweet arbutus buds ; 
'Tis then the shad puts on its spotless sheen 
And daffodils and adder-tongues are seen — 
The orchards, too, are radiant with bloom 
And all the air is filled with sweet perfume. 

JUNE 

Oh! June, thou month of joy and love and 

peace 
Of boundless skies soft flecked with clouds of 
fleece, 
Of balmy winds that whisper of content — 
With hedge and lawn and garden radiant 
With all the sweetest, fairest flowers that blow — 
Oh! June, dear June! how can I let thee go? 



64 



JULY 

When July comes the broad and fertile plain 
Afar and near is rich with waving grain, 

With wheat and oats and fields of nodding 

rye 
And growing corn with streamers waving 
high — 
While from the hayfield comes the noisy song 
Of cutter-bar and tedder all day long. 

AUGUST 

When August comes with cloudless brazen sky 
Then oft the fragile flowerets droop and die, 

And e'en the fresh maize curls its verdant 
leaves 

Yet gives a promise of the golden sheaves — 
And all the birds like revellers grow merry 
On garden fruit and many a luscious berry. 

SEPTEMBER 

The summer grain has all been harvested 
And stowed away in mow and loft and shed 
The corn is in the shock and golden fruit 
Is ripe upon the trees, and vine and root 
Have yielded up their yearly offering, 
And well redeemed the promises of spring. 



65 



OCTOBER 

Soft hazy skies o'erarch tlie dreamy world 
When Autumn's gorgeous pennon is unfurled, 
It almost seems that June is here again 
So deep the joy that fills the heart and brain — 
And then there comes the falling of a leaf, 
Though slight the sound it stirs the heart with 
grief. 

NOVEMBER 

Sad melancholy month, with tearful skies. 
When all the glad earth's verdure smitten lies — 
When all the happy birds have southward 

flown 
And through the leafless trees the shrill winds 
moan, 
Whistling a requiem for Nature's dead. 
Filling the mournful skies with clouds like lead. 

DECEMBER 

Earth's sombre garb is soft with new made snow 
When Christmas brings the thoughts of long ago ; 
Upon the cheerful hearth the Yule-log glows 
And though the skies be dark with falling 
snows 
It throws no shade upon the Christmas glee. 
For Christ is King and reigns from sea to sea. 

66 



POEMS OF WAR AND 
PATRIOTISM 



HOW "FIGHTING JOE HOOKER" TOOK 
LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN 

Know you the tale of a battle won 

Some thirty years ago, 
On a mountain top, when the Autumn sun 

In the west was sinking low ? 

It was a fight that the watching throng 

Were destined not to see. 
For the men went up five thousand strong 

Under the canopy 

Of God's free sky, through the fleecy clouds 

That overhung the plain, 
And the eager eyes of the watchful crowds 

Strained after them in vain. 

'Twas like a storm on a darksome night — 

This battle in the clouds, 
With the thunder's roll and the leven's light 

Among the mountain's shrouds. 

The sky was dark on that Autumn day 

The air was damp and cold, 
But the fields and woods in their mantle lay 

Of crimson and of gold ; 

Fresh laurel grew on the mountain's side 

Among the evergreen 
And the granite rocks with the verdure vied 

To beautify the scene. 
69 



They come— they come o'er the verdant plain 

With flags but not with drum, 
By the broad highway and the narrow lane, 

They come, they come, they come ! 

They round the base of the mountain tall, 

Unnoticed by the foe, 
On the southern side of its rugged wall 

They stand to strike the blow. 

*' Advance ! my boys," is the clear command 

It comes from '' Fighting Joe," 
And the men go up to the Rebels' stand, 

As only patriots go. 

They climb the rocks and the frowning cliffs 

Like Sparta's patriotic sons, 
And they scale the steep through the friendly 
rifts 

Up to the Rebel guns. 

Then fell a blight like the breath of Hell, 

Out of the mountain banks, 
With a storm of lead and a Rebel yell 

They fell upon our ranks ; 

We drove them back up the mountain walls. 

And gave them shot for shot. 
Till the air was filled with our shrieking balls 

And e'en the winds were hot. 



70 



The battle raged for a bloody hour, 

And neither had the best, 
Till just as the night was beginning to lower, 

When Hooker gained the crest. 

He swept the foe from the mountain's crown, 

And on its utmost crag. 
Just as the radiant sun went down. 

Planted the starry flag. 

A moment more and our signal gun 

Woke echoes in the glen, 
And the army knew that the fight was won 

By Hooker's gallant men. 

A PRISONER IN CHAINS 

In prison and in chains he stands, 
Within a dark and narrow cell, 
And many sentries guard him well, 
But they have only bound his hands — 
His spirit moves a thousand clans, 
His glory gleams on shining shields, 
A mighty kingdom quakes and reels, 
And freedom shouts in tyrant lands. 

Such is the power of noble deeds, 
That where one soul for freedom dies 
A thousand steel-clad warriors rise. 
To follow where the martyr leads. 

71 



The clang-ing of one prison chain 
Oft breaks a mighty despot's reign. 



THE LIVING DEAD 

When Freedom calls for heroes in her cause 
And all the air is ringing with applause, 
To charge the foe, e'en to the cannon's breath, 
And there lay down thy life is noblest death. 

When thou art dead to all that life can give, 
To take thy place within the ranks and live 
And move as others do, is nobler far, 
And on the soul it leaves a deeper scar — 

There thou wert dead and all thy glory shone. 
Here thou art dead, and e'en thy death unknown. 



HOW MASSA LINKUM CAME 

You chillun ebber hear me tell 
About ole Richmond town ; 

How 'fore de closement ob de war 
De Linkum troops came down ? 

I tell you, chilluns, dem was days 

Ole Moses don't forget, 
Though thirty years hab trabbled by 

I feel that 'sperence yet. 



72 



Dat time de Linkum sojers come 

A marchin' up the street, 
Wid all dar regermentums on 

An' music mighty sweet. 

Den how de darkies shouted loud 

'* De Juberlee hab come ! " 
An' how de chilluns peel dar eyes 

To see de big base drum. 

Den how de sojers marched along, 
Dar muskets gleamin' bright. 

An' how de music made us feel 
Right pow'ful for de fight. 

But what I gwine to tell dis crowd's 

How Massa Linkum came, 
De man dat made your mammies free 

By signin' ob his name. 

How 'fore he brought de army down 

He dun come down to see 
How Richmond looked and try to find 

What come ob Massa Lee. 

One day we heard it whispered round 
Mars Linkum's comin' here ; 

An' Massa Davis heard it too. 
An' dat's what make him clear. 



73 



De news had come mysterious — 
We didn't think 'twas true, 

But I was jes a watchin' out 
With nothin' much to do. 

It was de blessed Sabbath morn, 
De ribber sparklin bright, 

An' all de country fresh an' green 
An' smilin' in de light. 

An' I was sittin' on de warves 
Jes where de sun came down, 

A gazin' at the distant hills 
Beyond the sleepy town, 

When down de ribber far away 

I see a little smoke. 
An' on de air so strangely still 

A tug boat screechin' broke. 

Dat didn't 'sturb me, — not at all 
Dat squeelin' ribber brat ; 

Dat not de w^ay Mars Linkum come, 
He make more noise den dat. 

But bye and bye dat tug boat came 

An' bunted at the wharf 
An' den I saw fo' genelums 

Make ready to get off. 



74 



Dey came a walkin' up de plank 

A kinder lookin' roun' 
Like dey was strangers in de place 

An' didn't know de town. 

Dey was a right smart lookin' crowd, 

I didn't mind 'em all, 
But one had gold upon his coat. 

An' one was mighty tall. 

But pretty soon dey comes along 

Right near to where I sat. 
An' one ob dem steps up to me 

A liftin' ob his hat ; 

'' Hallo, Uncle Tom," the gemmun said, 
'' How would you like to see 
The President ob dis great land 
The man who made you free? " 

** See Massa Linkum ! sah," I said, 
*' My eyes a growin' dim, 
Ob all de men de Lord has made 
I'd rudder look at him." 

" Well, — dar he is," — de gemmun said, 
I saw de man he meant — 
De tallest one upon de right. 
He was de President. 



75 



I 'low dat statement took me back, 

A moment I was dumb, 
An' then I shouted, '' Hallelujah! 

Massa Linkum's come! " 

You better bet dey heard dat yell — 

I fotched it long and loud, 
An' in a moment more de street 

Was swarmin' wid de crowd ; 

An' ebery chile took up de cry 
An' shouted — ' ' Kingdom come ! 

Hallelujah ! hallelujah ! 
Massa Linkum's come! " 

An' ebery moment dat went by 

De shoutin' grew more loud, 
An' roun' dem four de darkies swarmed 

As thick as dey could crowd. 

An' in de midst ob all dat throng, 

A smilin' his consent, 
A lookin' mighty grand and tall, 

Still stood de President. 

'Twas just about dat time, I guess, 

'Long come old Parson Jake ; 
He made his way right through de crowd 

A swingin' ob a rake. 

76 



Right up to Massa Linkum's side 

Dat no-count Parson came, 
A bowin' like a turkey-cock 

An' callin' him by name. 

He shook de President by de hand, 
An' den I heard him say : 
'' We're mighty glad dat you hab come, 
Mars Linkum,— let us pray." 

I tell you chillun, I was scared 

For our ole Parson den, 
To hear him talkin' dat a way 

To such official men. 

I spec' Mars Linkum dun get mad 

An' knock dat nigger flat. 
Or mebbe kick him in de shins. 

Or smash his Sunday hat. 

But Massa Linkum only smiled 

At what dat Parson said. 
An' took his big tall beaver off 

An' den bowed down his head. 

Den Parson Jake, he knelt right down 

Upon dat dirty street, 
An' prayed a pra'r dat fairly took 

Dis nigger off his feet. 
77 



He t'anked de Lord dat he had seen 

Our sorrow and distress, 
An' brought us up, all safe an' sound, 

Out ob de Wilderness. 

Dat he had sent Mars Linkum round 

To lead us in de dark. 
To part de Jordan's rushing wave 

An' smite de solid rock. 

He prayed de Lord to bless dis land, 

De white folks an' de black. 
An' send de dove of peace around 

An' bring ole Massa back. 

He axed de Lord to bless de men 
Who fought to free de slaves, 

He prayed de Lord to comfort dem 
Down where de cotton waves. 

I b'lieve he prayed for ebryting 

In dis here blessed land, 
Wid Massa Linkum standin' by, 

A bowin' thar so grand. 

De pickaninnies stood so still 
You t'ink dey made o' stone, 

Dey didn't speak, nor move, nor breeve 
Until dat pra'r was done ; 

78 



An' den dey broke into a shout 

Dat mought hab woke John Brown, 

An' cheered until I t'ink de noise 
Would bring de heabens down. 

An' Massa Linkum waved his hand 

In answer to dem cheers ; 
His countenance was shinin' bright 

His cheeks were wet wid tears. 

' De Lord forgive an' bless us all, — 

De libin' an' de dead. 
An' bring sweet peace unto de land — " 
Mars Linkum husky said. 

" An' make de norf an' souf as one 
An' wipe away dar tears 
An' fill de nation wid his love 
Thro' all de comin' years." 

An' while he spoke he stretched his han's 

Above dat 'cited crowd ; 
I knowed de Lord would hear dat pra'r, — 

I tell you we was proud. 

An' den de fo' went up de street 

To music ob de band, 
An' all de darkies marchin' wid 

De President ob de land. 



79 



An' dat's de story ob de way 
Dat Massa Linkum come, 

Widout de marchin' ob de troops, 
Or beatin' ob de drum. 

An' tho' black Mose is growin' ole, 
An' foolish some folks say ; 

He don't forget de t'ings he saw 
Dat wondrous Sabbath day. 



LA GILLOTINE 

I see a square where that dread engine stands. 
And gathered round a cruel vengeful throng, 
Made blind by centuries of want and wrong 
To truth and right, with blood upon their hands. 
Amid the throng one noble figure stands. 
With regal form and features clear and strong, 
Indifferent to curses deep and long 
Heaped on her head by Paris' motly bands. 
A moment e'er she dies she lifts her head 
To view the form of liberty that cries 
Eternally to God against man's lies ; 
The whole world knows the glowing words she 

said. 
O liberty ! unto thy holy name 
What crimes are linked to hide their burning 

shame. 

80 



REVEILLE SONG 

The soldier slept in his guarded tent, 

The night was nearly done, 
The twinkling stars in the firmament 

Were fading one by one ; 
He dreamed of home and his waiting wife 

And heaved a long drawn breath. 
Of the battlefield and its sick'ning strife 

And agonies of death. — 

Awake ! awake ! 'tis the warning drum, 
Fall into line, for the foemen come. 
Awake I awake ! 'tis the warning drum ; 
Fall into line, for the foemen come. 

The soldier wakes with a sudden start 

And reaches for his gun, 
'Midst crashing shell and shrieking shot 

He fights till day is done. 
At set of sun, on the slippery banks. 

Pierced by a score of balls, 
The foremost man in the foremost ranks, 

The brave young soldier falls. 

Charge on ! charge on ! is the stirring cry, 
The day is won, for the foemen fly. 
Charge on ! charge on ! is the stirring cry ; 
The day is won, for the foemen fly. 



The soldier sleeps in '' his low green tent," 

Encoffined in the mold, 
The selfsame stars in the firmament 

Are shining as of old. 
The same dear flag that he loved so well 

Above him still doth wave, 
And the sweet wild rose and the asphodel 

Are growing on his grave. 

Asleep, asleep, is the soldier there, 
And he'll not wake for a martial air. 
Asleep, asleep, is the soldier there 
And he'll not wake for a martial air. 

The soldier wakes with a sudden thrill. 

The reveille of God 
Has sounded forth from the throned hills 

And burst the matted sod. 
An Angel read from the records then 

On leaves of flaming gold, 
They gave their lives for their fellow men, 

As Jesus did of old. 

Abide with me, is the Lord's reply. 

And dwell for aye with the saints on high. 

Abide with me, is the Lord's reply, 

And dwell for aye with the saints on high. 



THAT LAST WILD CHARGE AT 
GETTYSBURG! 

That last wild charge to scale the height — 
It was a grand, yet awful sight! 

Though thirty years have passed away, 

It seems to me but yesterday — 
That hour we stood on gory banks 
And watched Lee's gray-clad gleaming ranks 

Charge out across the peaceful plain, 

From whence they turned not back again. 

Fair Gettysburg lies far below, 
Beside the creeks still peaceful flow, 

Upon the meadows o'er the way 

The harvesters are making hay. 
And low of cattle from the hills 
And liquid laughter from the rills 

And song of bird from near and far 
Sound not like harbingers of war. 

Out of the South, with roll of drum. 
The blue and gray- clad armies come. 
Creeping along in silent files. 
Marching abreast for sixty miles, 
Watching each other day and night — 
Watching and waiting for the fight. 

Thus came they when the sun went down, 
And camped about the little town. 

83 



Three weary days, from height to height, 
The battle rolled from morn till night ; 
Three dreary days the cannon's breath 
Belched forth its messengers of death. 
Till earth and sky grew dark with dread 
And many thousand men lay dead — 
Then silently the remnant gray 
Closed up its ranks and stole away. 

'Twas on the third day '' Charge !" was said — 
The day that last wild charge was led ; 

They fired no shot from ten till one, 

Each gunner rested on his gun ; 
A breathless hush and a deathlike calm 
Foretold the coming of the storm. 

Then like some mighty tidal crest 
That rises high above the rest 

And madly dashes on the shore 

With thund'rous shock and deaf'ning roar, 
There rose a mighty sea of men 
Where peaceful fields of grain had been, 

And half the Southern army wheeled 

And charged across the quiet field. 

They shook the ridges with their yells — 
We could not hear their bursting shells — 

They ploughed our breastworks with their 
shot — 

84 



The July air grew thick and hot — 
They strewed the hillside with our dead ; 
They shook the vale with thund'rous tread 
And yet no answer from the hill, 
Our grinning guns were deathly still. 

But when the Rebel line swept down 

Upon the road that led to town, 
The Union rank its silence broke 
And every frowning cannon spoke. 

I've seen the forked lightning's play 
Until the night was bright as day ; 

I've heard the dreaded thunder's wrath 
That seemed to shake the very earth. 
Then like the lightning's blinding fla.sh. 
Then like the thunder's deaf'ning crash. 
Three hundred cannons' vengeful ire 
Burst forth in shot and shell and fire. 

A mighty flame lit earth and sky — 

I saw a host of heroes die — 

I heard the crash of shattered steel — 
I felt the boulders rock and reel ; 

Then all the scene grew black as night, 

As hotter, fiercer grew the fight. 

'Midst sick'ning smoke and flying sand, 
The dead so thick we scarce could stand, 

'Midst solid shot and bursting shell 



85 



And every horror known in hell, 

We fought as men ne'er fought before 
And turned the tide of cruel war. 

As darkness flees at break of day, 

As every tempest dies away. 

So ceased the storm on hill and plain, 
The fall of leaden sleet and rain. 

Then came a gentle evening breath 

And kissed the fevered fields of death, 
And blew aside the friendly screen 
And showed us where the fight had been. 

We saw no shattered army then. 

With broken lines of flying men ; 
We heard no sound of rushing feet, 
Of scattered corps in wild retreat ; 

We saw no banner rise and fall, 

We heard no drum or bugle call. 
Only a crimson field instead, 
With an endless stretch of sleeping dead, 

The Southern army widely slain. 

Gone like a leaf in the hurricane. 

All honor to the charge they made ! 

All glory to the men who stayed 

That fearless charge, with a fearless stand 
For Freedom and their native land ! 

We praise them with our mingled cheers, 



86 



We grieve them with our mingled tears, 
And a nation springs to the bugle call, 
And the starry flag floats over all. 

God grant that this may ever be 

The land of love and liberty, 

And that Old Glory's stripe and star 
Shall ne'er again be raised in war ! 

REBEL AND PATRIOT 

A hero rose in armor bright 
To drive a tyrant from the land ; 
The monarch brought his armed band 
And crushed him in a single fight, 
And wrong still triumphed over right. 
The rebel died, his honored name 
Was branded with a traitor's shame. 
Another rose in greater might, 
With dauntless men at his command 
And drove the tyrant from the land. 
The people cheered the noble deed. 
And placed the crown upon his head. 
The crown of him who first had bled 
In freedom's cause and sown the seed. 



WHO WON MARENGO 

Slow the burning sun was waning" 
Where Napoleon's line had reeled, 

Where the blood of France was staining 
All the verdure of the field ; 

Where her bravest sons were lying, 
Piled in heaps of mangled dead. 

And the moaning of the dying 

Filled the air with sounds of dread ; 

Where the muskets' furious rattle 
Never ceased, and cannon frowned, 

And the din and shock of battle 
Shook the earth for miles around ; 

There the Corsican had blundered, 

And his army was undone. 
And the Teuton's guns had thundered, 

And the Austrian had won. 

There with all her army scattered 
By the whirlwind of the fray, 

And with half her legions shattered 
France had surely lost the day. 

And her great commander madly 

Raving at this first defeat. 
Said unto his drummer sadly, 
"Victor, beat the quick retreat." 

88 



**' O my General, I have never 

Beat that shameful strain before, 
At the touch my drum would wither, 
Let me sound the charge once more." 

** Who would answer to the summons?" 

Then Napoleon hotly said, 
^ ' Where are all my boasted legions ? 

They are scattered, they are dead." 

^' If I call them they will rally, 

They are patriots, they are men. 
They will come from hill and valley, 
Let me call them once again." 

And these words from one so daring, 
One so young, yet truly brave, 

Put to shame the heart despairing, 
And resistless courage gave. 

^* Sound the charge!" the general thundered, 
'' Let us rally, all who can," 
And the Austrian foemen wondered 
At the daring of the man. 

But the French along the valley 

Raised the cry of Bonaparte, 
And they rallied to the sally 

With new courage and new heart. 

Victor led them to the breastworks. 
Up the banks they saw him climb, 
89 



And the rolling of his drumsticks 
To the double quick kept time. 

Who could see him and not follow? 

O'er the works the Frenchmen swept^. 
And that last mad charge of Marlow 

Long in Austria was wept ; 

For it turned the tide of battle, 
And it filled the foe with dread, 

And the rest, like frightened cattle, 
O'er the hills and valleys fled. 

Then they sought the little drummer 
Who had led the charge so well. 

In the lightnings and the glamour, 
E'en into the mouth of hell. 

On the works they found him lying. 
There beside his riddled drum. 

Where the mangled dead and dying 
Made the heart with pity numb. 

He the bravest of those heroes. 

With his face turned towards the foe, 

Dead to all life's joys and sorrows, 
Gone where such brave spirits go. 

Filled with grief and tender pity, 
To the strains of Marseillaise, 



90 



Then they bore him to the city 

Where the air was rife with praise. 

There they left him and the people 
Laid him in a soldier's grave, 

Close beside St. Martin's steeple, 
Where his country's banners wave. 

And they'll not forget the story 
Until Pity dries her tears. 

And the head of Time grows hoary 
With the burden of the years. 



OUR FLAG 

Red for the life blood that freely was given 
To shield our bright banner when infamy 

came ; 
White for the nation that purged her dark 
shame. 
Blue for her heroes, a symbol of heaven. 



THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL 

On June seventeenth, in '' seventy-five," 
Old Boston's streets were all alive 

With those who, waking, heard the gun 
That first was fired at Lexington. 



91 



Old men and matrons thronged the street 

With gallant youths and maidens sweet, 
And all the children too were there, 
With rosy cheeks and golden hair. 

Gay mingling with the shouting throng 

That cheered the soldiery along 

Old Boston's narrow, winding street, 
In rhythm to the drum that beat 

And clarion fife that flung afar 

The bold, defiant strains of war; 
For every settlement and town 
From all the colonies around 

Had sent its band of minute men 

To fight the hated red-coat then. 
Like to a day of perfect peace 
That morning's sun illumed the east. 

Far out upon the tranquil bay 

Flung wide the golden gates of day 
And hurled its shafts of rosy light 
Against the legions of the night ; 

And June looked down' with happy eyes 

From out the azure of her skies, 

And nature smiled from field and wood — 
Alas! to stain such scenes with blood. 

When General Howe that morning bent 
His gaze upon the hill intent, 

His swarthy visage wore a frown ; 

He brought his clinched fist fiercely down 
92 



upon the vessel's rail, and swore 
That e'er the breaking day was o'er 
He'd blow the rebel works in air 
And float the British ensign there. 
Within the town, on roofs and towers, 
An anxious throng since early hours 
Had eager watched the new made fort 
And fearful scanned the ships in port. 
All through the morn, with irate will, 
The cannon thundered at the hill ; 

They wreathed the vessels in their smoke- 
And hard and bitter words they spoke ; 
But half their shots flew wide the mark 
And others sank in sand and rock. 
So scarce a dozen men were harmed, 
Though long and fierce the frigates stormed. 

But when the noon-day sun looked down 

Upon the harbor and the town. 
He saw a score of loaded boats. 
Red with the Britons' crimson coats, 

Pulled by the sturdy British oar 

Up to the hostile Charlestown shore. 

They formed their men in solid ranks,. 

And slow advanced upon the banks 
Where cowering low, the rebels lay, 
In doubt and fear, an easy prey ; 



93 



Yet paused half way to fire a volley, 

To show the traitor horde its folly. 
But from the hill came no report, 
And all was silence in the fort. 

Now, scarce two hundred feet between, 

But not a patriot gun is seen. 
What ! cowers the free-born English heart 
At tyranny without a shot? 

But look! the flame, the cloud, the rent! 

The peal that lifts the firmament. 
As darker grows the cloud and higher 
Leaps the fierce avenging fire ! 

But now it is so dense and dark. 

We see not friend or foe — but hark ! 
The fight is o'er, we hear no gun — 
O, heaven grant that we have won. 

The darksome curtain slowly lifts 
And shows the red-coats piled in drifts 
Adown the hillside to the shore 
In mangled heaps and drenched with gore ; 
The rest in wild confusion stand 
About their boats upon the sand. 
But see ! they form in line again 
And swift advance upon our men. 

With straining eyes and bated breath 
We watch the pageantry of death. 
The swift advance, the earthy mound. 
And wait to hear the dreaded sound. 

94 



Two hundred feet away at last — 
The anxious heart beats hard and fast. 
'The British fire, but no report 
Makes answer from the silent fort. 
One hundred feet away, and still 
No thunder from the frowning hill. 
A flash ! a flame ! a cloud rolls high, 
And scores of red-coat heroes lie 
In windrows piled upon the ground 
In mingled life and death around. 
The rest are huddled on the beach 
Beyond the patriots' muskets reach. 
'Tis o'er! they will not come again 
To '' beard the lion in his den." 
But look ! their line is forming o'er, 
With bayonets set they charge once more, 
Determined that the foe shall feel 
The thirsty point of British steel. 
Where are the guns that spoke before 
And drenched the hillside red with gore? 
Only a scattered few are heard 
And scarce the Briton's line is stirred, 
And like a mighty wave the rank 
Sweeps up the hill and o'er the bank. 

Their powder spent, with bar and spade 
And musket butt, the patriots made 
A stubborn fight to keep them out. 
Yet lacked the skill and fled in rout, 

95 



And like a helpless, storm -tossed wreck 
Swept down the hill and o'er the neck ; 

Across the isthmus where the blight 

Of cannon shot fell left and right, 

And from each crowded roof and spire 
Went up a groan prolonged and dire. 

Ah ! do not call this fight defeat, 

A victory oft crowns retreat. 
'Tis not the battle lost or won. 
It is the deed that they have done. 

That they have dared to do this thing 

Against a kingdom and a king 
Is in itself a victory 
That shall resound from sea to sea ; 

A host shall rise when they shall hear 

How these have fought and perished here, 
And tyranny shall smitten lie 
Because these men have dared to die ; 

And not one atom of the cost 

In human life shall e'er be lost. 

The birds will tell it to the breeze, 
And it will waft it o'er the seas; 

In every land, in every tongue. 

Where freedom's songs are joyous sung, 

Fair eyes will flash and brave hearts thrill 
To hear the tale of Bunker Hill. 



96 



POEMS OF LOVE 



THE GIPSY LASS 

Know you the song of the gipsy lass, 

The wandering brunette ? 
I'm sure you ne'er could have seen her pass, 

Or you would not forget. 

About her waist is a gorgeous scarf 

Of crimson and of gold. 
As light and free as the gipsy's laugh 

Is every careless fold. 

The wind and the sun have tanned her cheek 

And warmed its olive skin, 
You look in vain for a feature weak 

In nose, or mouth, or chin. 

Her lips are full and a luscious red, 

Her eyes have a dazzled ray, 
And if their light on your path is shed 

'Twill steal your heart away. 

Know you the song of the gipsy girl, 

A song of love or war? 
Of a distant knight in the battle's whirl, 

Or a sighing troubadour. 

When she sings of war then her temples burn 

Like the brow of a cavalier, 
Her dark eyes flash, and her face grows stern, 

Her voice rings loud and clear. 

99 



Her eyes are soft when she sings of love, 

Her blushes come and go, 
And you see the night with the stars above, 

And feel the cool winds blow. 

O ! the dark brunette has a smile for all, 

A lover new each day, 
She picks them up, then she lets them fall, 

And flings their hearts away. 

Know you the life of the gipsy maid, 

Its sorrow and its grief? 
She makes her bed in the green wood's shade, 

Or sleeps on the fragrant heath. 

The evening star is her chamber light, 

Her lullaby the streams. 
And the restless wind at the dead of night 

Comes moaning in her dreams. 

But the lark will sing in the morning hours. 
When night and sleep are through, 

To wake the child of the fields and flowers, 
The sunlight and the dew. 



SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 

Fair are the skies that bend to meet the hills, 
Soft are the winds that stir the meadow grass, 
Cool is their touch, and fragrant as they pass 




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\ 



tUmmit. niiiani 






With sweet perfumes that come as nature wills ; 
By floral walks the busy bee distills 
His winter store, and sweet wild songsters mass, 
While in my glad young heart there is, alas. 
Not room to hold the joy that bounds and thrills 
When with me 'neath these boughs my lady 

stands. 
No other time wears earth so fair a guise 
As when I gaze into her dreamy eyes 
And read the tale I treasure more than lands, 
Or hear her softly breathe her love once more, — 
But what if death should snatch her from my 

door? 

THINE EYES 

'Tis vain to sing the glory of thine eyes — 

Those merry eyes that dance and make us 

glad, 
Those mournful eyes that glance and make us 
sad. 
Those liquid depths of laughter and surprise 
Where every shade of sweet expression lies ; 
Those tearful eyes where pearly dewdrops 

shine. 
Those sunny eyes of radiance divine, 
Are more to me than aught in paradise ; 
For when my heart is heavy with despair 
I turn away from all this world of care 

lOI 



And gaze into their depths — then sorrow flees 
And joy returns, for hidden there I see 
The wondrous light of all thy love for me. 

Divinest eyes! Whence are your mysteries? 



LOVE'S INDEX 

You may live for sterner duty, 

And may hold yourself apart, 
But you cannot hide the beauty 

Of the joy that's in your heart ; 
For the face reveals the glory 

Of a passion strong and fair, 
And love has no hidden story 

But will leave its imprint there. 



I02 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

WHEN THOU ART NEAR 

When thou art near it matters not to me 
What fortune moves the hand of destiny ; 
I hold it more than wealth, or power, or fame. 
To hold thee close and breathe thy dulcet name. 

WE TWO 

We two, love, stood beside the placid stream, 
I saw your face like to a happy dream ; 
And then a stone slid from the slippery bank, 
And silently the angel vision sank. 

THE HEART MUST LEAD 

The heart must lead along life's doubtful way 
When 'tis too dark for reason's feeble sight ; 

And if thou heed'st its warnings, day by day, 
In deepest gloom 'twill lead thy steps aright. 

A CARESS 

Ambition, where are all thy glories now — 
The wealth, the fame, that thou did'st crave 
of yore ? 

I'd rather feel her hand upon my brow 
Than any crown that monarch ever wore. 



103 



WATCHING AND WAITING 

I love my silent watch, to keep 

Beside the river wide and deep, 
To sit beneath the shady hill 
When all the wood is hushed and still, 

And watch the gentle ebb and flow 

That dances in the vale below. 

I love to hear the waters roar 
As down the steep they madly pour, 
Or catch their softer melody 
Upon the breezes wild and free, 
When wearily the river's breast 
Smooths out its folds in tranquil rest. 

I love to watch the silver light 

Beneath the mantle of the night. 
When, rich and mellow over all, 
A flood of dancing moonbeams fall, 

And every meteor and star 

Is blazing in its realm afar. 

In love's sweet season, in this shade 

Long years ago I wooed a maid ; 
A maiden fair as any flower 
That ever bloomed in Eden's bower. 

And two young hearts beat tenderly. 

Beside the river on the lea. 



104 



A cottage stands in yonder dell 

Where one fleet year we two did dwell ; 
And life was happy as a dream, 
And peaceful as the silver stream, 

Until one day, beside the deep 

My little darling fell asleep. 

I called her long — I called her wild ! 

But cold in death she only smiled ; 

I clasped her hand and bade her wake, 
I told her that my heart would break. 

But cold in death her hand was chill. 

Her ashen lips were mute and still. 

'Twas long ago, that mournful day. 

When tenderly we laid away 

The fairest flower in all the vale, 
All cold and lifeless fair and pale. 

Folded her hands upon her breast 

And gently laid her down to rest. 

And now at fall of eventide 

I wander by the riverside 

And sit me down beneath the tree 
That sheltered little Nell and me, 

And by the river wide and deep 

I calmly sit and wait for sleep. 

And o'er the crag the waters break 
And still my darling will not wake, 
105 



And through the mead the river creeps 
And still sweet Nellie gently sleeps. 
And o'er her grave the willow weeps. 
And still my darling sleeps and sleeps. 

TO MY LADY SLEEPING 

How fair, how tranquil is my lady's pose — 
Upon her pillow, wrapped in peaceful dreams, 
Hardly a thing of earth or life she seems. 
Her lips half parted like a budding rose ; 
And o'er her couch one golden ringlet flows. 
The rest across her pillow wildly streams, 
And in the silver moonlight glints and gleams 
Like evening sunlight on eternal snows ; 
And with each breath that softly comes and goes 
I see the hand upon her virgin breast 
Rise quickly up then slowly sink to rest — 
And now she smiles in innocent repose — 
O ! tell me stars, or wind that softly blows, 
Is it for me that smile like heaven glows? 

THERE IS BEAUTY 

There is beauty without stature. 

In the perfect Grecian mold, 
There is beauty without feature 

In the classic dies of old ; 

io6 



Tiiere is beauty without fashion, 

There is beauty without art 
In the pure and simple passion 

Of a tender loving heart. 

Be the passion love or pity, 

Crowned with honor or with shame, 
For a dreamland or a city 

Still the lesson is the same ; 
For the spirit is immortal 

And it shineth through the clay, 
Like the vSunlight through the portal 

Of a dark and sombre day. 

A BOUTONNIERE 

It is not that the flower is rare, 

Because 'tis bright to see, 

But that thy fingers placed it there, 

Upon my coat for me ; 

For at thy touch the ugly tare 

Would turn anemone. 

ONLY A vSLENDER GRAVEN BAND 

Only a slender graven band, 

A tiny thing of gold, 
I took it from my dead Love's hand 

Her hand so white and cold. 

107 



I hid it in my aching breast, 

O ! cruel cruel fate, 
It filled my heart with mad unrest 

And crushed me with its weight. 

I hid it in a secret drawer, 

Away from mortal eye, 
But still it drew me by its power — 

I could not let it lie. 

I gave it to a distant friend 

To keep for me, alack ! 
Before he reached his journey's end 

I was upon his track. 

I tore it fiercely from his hand 

And threw it in the sea, 
Then lay me down upon the sand 

And wept it bitterly. 

It fell upon a sea-weed bright 
That floated to the shore, 

I seized my treasure with delight 
And kissed it o'er and o'er. 

And now I wear it on my hand 
Where all the world may see, — 

But only God can understand 
How much it means to me. 



io8 



TO A WATCH 

Thing of beauty, made for duty, 
Ever ticking without rest, 

Thou art sleeping in good keeping 
On a peerless maiden's breast. 

Thou art nearest to her dearest 
Hopes and longings all unguessed. 

O discover if another 

Of her graces is possessed, 

For her favor would forever 

Make me dearly doubly blessed, 

And no burden e'er would sadden 
If her love I once possessed. 



[09 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

INDIRECTION 

Thou may' St not ever lift thy voice in song, 
But since my life has seen and felt and known 
The height and depth and purpose of thine own, 
One poet's verse shall be more deep, more strong. 

THE TALKING DAISY 

Only a daisy growing by the walk — 

Who ever heard a little daisy talk? 

I picked the flower and sent it o'er the sea, 

And soon it brought my lost love back to me. 

THY SMILE 

Oh let me linger love awhile, 

A little in the sunshine stay, 
The gentle sunlight of thy smile 

That turns my darkest night to day. 

LOVE IS A BIRD 

Love is a bird that fears the haunts of men, 
But seeks instead some sweet secluded glen ; 
Afar from wealth with peace upon its wings. 
Beside the cotter's door he sweetly sings. 



no 



I LOVED THEE SO 

My life was like a barren, wind-swept plain, 
Surmounted by a brazen, cloudless sky, 
Without an oasis to cheer the eye. 

Or e'en a shrub to tell of cooling rain ; 

Then to my heart all feverish with pain. 

Came love with dewy wings, and told of thy 
Sweet face, thy blush, thy melancholy sigh. 

And of thy soul so pure and free from stain. 
Then straightway all the barren waste of years 
Was flooded by a shower of happy tears 

And in that hour my soul forgot its woe ; 

New pleasures filled with joy the glad old 

earth. 
New hopes and longing taught my soul the 
worth 

Of life, and all because I loved thee so. 



ONE MEMORY 

Though sun and moon and stars should pale. 

And all my earthly friends should fail. 
If I could keep Thee in my heart 
Unsullied, from the world apart; 

This one great joy amid life's woe 

Would make my cup to overflow. 



Ill 



PYGMALION TO GALATEA 

O soulless Galatea ! Thou art stone, 
And yet my hands have given to thy form 
A grace that never yet was seen of flesh, 
And to thy brow a beauty never born. 
But no — my throbbing heart and fevered brain 
Ne'er held so fair a dream of womanhood ; 
My trembling hands but freed thee from the cold, 
Relentless stone that held thy matchless form. 
And thou didst live in some forgotten age 
When men were gods and women were their 
queens. 

O peerless Galatea! Thou art free, 

And I have wrought that rich deliverance. 

What wild, ecstatic joy it was to see 

Thy goddess features grow from out the stone, 

As year by year I labored slowly on. 

And, as I worked, it seemed thy noble face 

Grew warm beneath my touch ; I thought thy 

lips 
Would surely speak when I had set them free ; 
But when I pressed them with my own, the twain 
Were hard and cold and passionless as death. 

O heartless Galatea ! Speak to me. 
Though thou canst say but cold and cruel words ; 
For I would see thee move thy speechless lips 
E'en though their breath did freeze my very soul. 

112 



I cannot bear to look upon thy face 
Its cold indifference would break my heart. 
And drive me mad. I cannot bear to hold 
Thy senseless hand, its lifeless touch is like 
The hand of death. Oh! give one simple sign 
Of life and love and I will rest content ! 

O dearest Galatea ! Live for me 
And I will crown thy life with priceless love. 
My watchful tenderness shall soothe thy pain 
And shield thee from all sorrow and distress, 
My boundless love shall be thy refuge and 
Thy strength and I will live to give thee joy. 
If love be dead and cold within thy breast, 
Mine own warm heart shall kindle it anew 
Into a flame that shall transcend the skies. 
And live though all things else in life shall fail. 

O senseless Galatea ! Thou art dead ! 
And yet, I swear thy soul shall come again. 
Such love as mine would start the blood within 
Thy pulseless breast, and call thy spirit back, 
Though death had claimed it for a thousand 

years. 
My heart shall beat in mute appeal for thee, 
Each breath my lips shall cry aloud for thee, 
And all my life shall be a living prayer 
Unto the gods for thy deliverance ; 
And I will watch, and wait, and pray, till heaven 

113 



Shall give thee back to earth, or death shall loose 
My cruel chains and let me go to thee. 

A NEW-BLOWN ROSE 

Dew-gemmed, sun-kissed and reaching towards 
the light, 
Op'ning its folds, soft tinted, red and rare, 
Breathing its fragrance on the morning air, 

*Tis just the rose to give my love delight, 

I'll pick it now, and give it her to-night. 
But 'tis so sweet, so fragrant and so fair, 
Smiling, blushing upon the rose bush there, 

I cannot pluck it from the stem to blight 
E'en though it be for my dear love to wear. 

THE POET'S LOVE 

The poet's love should be a maid so fair 

That all would pause in pleasure and surprise, 

Whene'er she passed, to feast their hungry eyes 

Upon a sight so beautiful and rare. 

The poet's love should have a mind and dare 

To criticise her minstrel's faulty song. 

To tell him where the feeble lines went wrong. 

And then to praise the little beauty there. 

The poet's love should be a maid of prayer 

And draw her knowledge of the lyric art 

114 



Out of the longings of her woman's heart, 
With eyes to see and heart to truly care 
For peerless truth, then while the poet singj 
She lifts him up to higher nobler things. 



SWEET SMILING LIPS 

Sweet smiling lips, so wan and white, 
That yester morn were laughing light 
Oh ! tell me has her spirit fled, 
Or does my loved one sleep instead? 
Oh ! will she wake with morning bright 
Sweet smiling lips? 

But one brief day has taken flight. 
Since love redeemed its holy plight 
But now all happiness has sped, 
Sweet smiling lips. 

Yet yesterday when we were wed 

I thought the simple words you said 

Were something Time could never blight ; 

But now that dream has vanished quite. 

Oh ! come back flushing, blushing red 

And tell me that she is not dead, 

Sweet smiling lips. 



LOVE OR GOLD 

Gold is a stingy offering 

In sorrow's raging storm, 
It cannot consolation bring — 

But love is deep and warm. 

Love's bright and holy tributes spring 
From hearts with love aglow, 

While all gold's favors hollow ring 
As empty idle show. 



THE ROSE AND THE THORN 

I sought the flower I loved the best 
Amid the garden's varied bloom, 
A perfect bud with sweet perfume, 

A rose more fair than all the rest 

That I might wear it on my breast 
And guard it ever tenderly. 
I found the flower that bloomed for me 

Beside the pathway, smiling lest 
The wanderer might pass it by 
And it be left to fade and die. 

I seized the flower with wild delight. 
Though cruelly my hand was torn. 

It faded e'er another night 

And left me but the ugly thorn. 



il6 



AT DEVOTION 

Now kneels my lady at her couch in prayer, 

Her two white hands uplifted to the skies, 

To ask of Him beneficent and wise 

Another night of tender love and care. 

And as I watch my lady kneeling there 

With deep devotion in her tender eyes, 

While from her lips fair phrased petitions rise, 

Her robe like to the garb that angels wear, 

But made the whiter by her streaming hair ; 

I deem that from the gates of Paradise 

An angel heard my heart's impatient cries 

For woman's love, and answered then and there. 

Fair angel say one word of grace for me 

For God must surely hear and answer thee. 

BOATING ON THE LAKE 

The stars are bright, the moon is high, 
And night winds whisper on the shore. 
Our boat is slowly gliding o'er 

A lake as placid as the sky. 

Where moon and stars reflected lie. 
The liquid laughter of Lenore, 
The gentle dipping of her oar 

Awake a happy lullaby. 
*' Ah ! lady fair," I musing said, 
** If life is but a boat like this, 

117 



With you to row and me to kiss, 
What joy 'twould be when we are wed! " 
** Ah, no," she said — " 'Tis very clear 
That you will row and I shall steer." 

PLAYING TENNIS 

The winds are playing with her hair, 

Her cheeks are flushing like the rose, 
vShe stands with racket raised in air, 

To catch the ball that comes and goes. 
She springs more fleetly than the roe 

And serves with swift unerring flight. 
Like willows when the breezes blow 

She bends, and sways, and turns, and light 
Upon the lawn her footfalls pass, 
As thistledown upon the grass. 

Three brilliants brought from Afric's strand 
Reflect the morning's rosy light, 
And yet her eyes are twice as bright 

As all the jewels on her hand. 

YES OR NO 

They sat within a dreamy bower. 

And passed the hours in converse sweet ; 
He by her side, yet at her feet, 
Nor heard the clock upon the tower 
That chimed each swiftly passing hour; 

ii8 



And in each moment passing fleet 

He racked his wits for some conceit 
To supplement his feeble power 

In asking for the maiden's hand ; 
While she impatient of delay, 
But looked the words she dared not say, 

And wished that he might understand. 
Only a word and idle breath, 
But yes was life, and no was death. 

IF I BUT HAD THE KEY 

If I but had the little key 

That opes my lady's wayward heart ' 
I'd turn the bolt, and then I'd see 

If love e'er pierced it with his dart ; 
And if her love was all for me 

I'd enter in and lock the door, 

And live with love forevermore. 

THE BALL DRESS 

They dressed my lady for the ball — 
In softest satins, fashioned so 
They left her arms and neck to show 

That they were fair as snows that fall, 

With richest laces over all. 

About her form's exquisite mould 
Fell many a graceful shining fold, 



And admiration filled the liall. 
But Where's the beauty of a dress 
To match this lady's loveliness? 

Her sweet address, her happy mien, 
That glossy hair, those eyes of brown, 
That sunny face that ne'er could frown, 

Would grace the raiment of a queen. 



THE FISHER-MAIDEN 

Her smile is like the morning bright 
When shines the glorious sun. 

Her eyes are like the flashing light 
From out the diamond stone. 

Her lips are like the cherry red — 
They hide such teeth of pearl. 

And when by laughter they are spread 
There's such a tempting curl. 

Faint blushes play upon her cheeks, 

Like ripples on the Nile, 
I'd like to catch one as it streaks 

From dimple into smile. 

I love her well and told her so 
When we were out to-day, — 

She answered me so soft and low 
And did not say me nay, 

1 20 



A PORTRAIT OP MY LADY 

PRELUDE 

O words ! weak words, how can I give thee form 
And color like the fair young face I fain 
Would paint? How can I give thee light and 

shade, 
And strength and truth and gentle earnestness, 
And crown them all with that rich coronet 
Of human life, a great and noble soul? 

O eyes ! deep lucent pools of tenderness 

And truth, where all that fair or good in earth 

Or heaven mirrored lies, where burns the fire 

Of proud ambition towards the infinite, 

x\nd soul that will not rest content with small 

Uncertain things, but needs must climb from 

height 
To height, undazzled by the altitude, 
That cannot rest until it knoweth God, 
The source, and author of the universe. 
The fountain of all beauty and all truth. 
And knowing Him — must love the mystery 
Of earth, of air, of sun, of sky, and all 
That moves and lives in this great universe. 
O eyes, so strong, so deep, so grave, so full 
Of that unspoken language of the soul ; 
Mine own poor orbs go down before thy gaze 
As 'twere an angel sent to me from heaven 



To read my heart and pierce my inmost soul ; 
So rare, so pure, so heavenly is your light. 

O lips ! fair servants of the heart and brain, 
Expressing all her thoughts and feelings in 
Such myriad forms of speech, and diverse looks, 
And little intonations quaint and sweet 
That saying nothing, mean a volume full, 
And fill the poet's heart with joy and fear; 
That in their speech let fall such pearls of truth, 
Such spotless gems of fancy and of wit, 
It seemed she held the chalice of all wit. 
All wisdom, and all fancy in her hands, 
And did but lavish forth what pleased her mood, 
And in such tones it seemed a siren spake ; 
And who shall paint the rapture of those lips 
When through their ruby depths there breaks a 

smile 
Like sunlight through the rosy gates of morn, 
Or like a primrose parted by a sunbeam. 
O lips of beauty, strength and eloquence, 
Of tenderness and power all blent in one, 
O bless me with one word of gracious praise, 
Of commendation for this poor attempt, 
And more — O ecstacy too great for words. 
One word of love, of sweet abiding love, 
Beside which all life's other gold is dross. 

O face ! the looking glass of woman's soul. 
The full blown rose of all her sweet perfection, 



The never failing index of the heart, 

What strength, what beauty in thy every line, 

What high-born thought, what thrilling passion 

speaks 
In eye, in mouth, and in thy noble brow ; 
W^hat envy for the rose is in thy blush, 
What venom for the lily in thy skin. 
O face, what greater rapture could man know 
Than biding near her while my lady dreams. 
And watch the play, the change of light and 

shade, 
,Upon her face, when life's full chord is struck 
And flesh reveals the spirit that's within. 

O form ! that matches symmetry with grace. 

And eloquence and brawn, with beauty too, 

Where is the Venus, born of ancient art. 

Or Diana, so strong and swift of foot. 

In noble bust that can compare with thee? 

How flows the rich profusion of thy hair 

In glossy tresses down a lily neck, 

How swells the contour of thy virgin breast 

With all that is most noble in the heart, 

What graceful curves thy sloping shoulders make, 

And how above the rest, serene and full 

Thy noble forehead speaks intelligence. 

queen of beauty ! regent of my heart ! 

1 bring this poor portrayal of thy grace, 



123 



A better tlieme for Petrarch, or the bard 
Who tuned his lyre for goddesses of old, 
And beg thee hang it in thy banquet hall, 
Not that it is sufficient in itself, 
But that it is a labor of such love. 
There let it hang, upon the frescoed wall 
Just where some merry sunbeam deigns to slant, 
Itself a sunbeam from the source of light. 
That some may know, who pause and chance to 

look 
Above the mould, and cobwebs at their feet, 
That some poor fool has dreamed, and e'en 

aspired 
Out of his boundless love that gave him strength, 
To paint for man, that fairest work of God, 
Set like a jewel in a grosser world 
That better shows it forth, a perfect woman. 



IS4 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



ALL ABOUT FROGS 

A frog is something like a toad, 
Only he lives down by the road 
Where there's a pond and lily pads, 
And toads, they live in folk's back yards. 

A toad is fat, a frog is lean. 
The suit he wears is always green, 
Except his vest, and that is yellow. 
And he's a mighty funny fellow. 

Sometimes he sits beside a pad 
And smiles at you, like he was glad. 
And then he goes down in kerplunk, 
And kicks around like he was drunk ; 

And when you think he's surely drowned. 
He's gone so long, you look around 
And you will see him on a stone, 
A catchin' flies and havin' fun. 

Sometimes I poke him with a stick 
To see him jump, he goes so quick, 
So very quick, I do declare 
You cannot see him in the air. 

But some bad boys throw stones at him. 
And he gets killed, if he don't swim 
Down out of sight, and quiet stay 
Until the bad boys go away. 

127 



My pa, he knows, and lie says frogs 
Are but big grown up poUywogs ; 
I didn't see how that could be. 
And so I thought one day Vd see. 

I went and caught a pollywog 
And laid him down upon a log, 
And watched him for an hour or so, 
But I am sure he didn't grow. 

When I told Papa, he looked queer 
And said it took almost a year 
For them to grow, and that was why 
I could not see it with my eye. 



SHADOWS 

A little tree my hand could reach around, 
Can cast a mighty shadow on the ground ; 
So little folks if they are cross at play, 
May make dark shadows chase the sun away. 



HOW TOMMY WALKED ON THE WATER 

Last Friday afternoon when school was done 
And Tommy 'n' me were looking out for fun, 
A new idea came into Tommy's head 
While we were sitting by Ma's posy bed. 

128 



I'm goin' to do a miracle for you," 
He said, '' If you won't tell, honest and true," 
And then he went into the wagon shed 
And got two bladders bigger than my head. 

And then we went down to the old red mill,. 
Where there's a pond, with water in it still,. 
And Tommy got upon a log of wood 
And crawled out on it careful as he could.. 

And then he fished his pockets for some strings^ 
And on his big toes tied them bladder things, 
Then said he'd show me how that Peter done, 
And do a miracle and have some fun. 

He stepped right off just like the pond was 

ground, 
With both his feet a-bobbin' all around. 
Without a thought of his new pair of clothes- 
And went head first right down upon his nose. 

His head went down like it was made of lead 
And both his feet came up in sight instead ; 
'Twas like a fly a-walkin' on the ceilin*, 
I saw him kick but couldn't hear him squealin'. 

And all the time he tried to reach his toes 
And break them strings, a-standin' on his nose ; 
But I got scat when he had kicked a spell, 
And hollered fire as tight as I could yell. 

129 



Then Pa came runnin* out without his hat 
And in his stocking feet, a-lookin' scat ; 
We got poor Tommy out and home in bed, 
A-lookin' pale and white, and almost dead. 

And Ma she cried and kissed him lots and said, 
It was a mercy that he wasn't dead ;" 
And Pa he said that he would tend to me 
And give me something pleasant after tea. 

THE BUTTERCUP 

Dear little chalice, catching the sunlight, 
Holding the drops of the morning dew. 
Growing so sweetly here by the roadside, 
Would I might learn a lesson from you. 
Out of the sunlight and glory of God, 
To gather the sweetness and leave the rue. 

ALL ABOUT GIRLS 

A girl is something with a braid, 
That wears an apron and is 'fraid ; 
And women, they are grown up girls, 
With longer hair and lots more curls. 

I have a sister 'n' her name's Nan, 
And she can't ever be a man. 
Or run about upon the hay 
And have a jolly time at play. 
130 



All she can do is have a doll 

And take it out with her to call, 

Or pick some flowers and make bouquets, 

Which are the dullest kind of plays. 

Girls have to stay inside the house 
And keep as quiet as a mouse, 
But boys can go outside and yell, 
And when they're tired, come in a spell. 

Girls have to wash the dishes too, 
And sweep the room when that is through, 
While boys go off to slide and skate 
And don't get home till it is late. 

But girls are good for little things. 
Like mending balls, or tying strings, 
And sometimes Nan will help a feller 
When he has lost his ball down cellar. 

There's one thing girls don't have to do. 
That's get in wood, like me or you. 
And if they did I know they'd cry 
And then not pile the wood up high. 

But Nan, she's better than the others, 
For she is good to both her brothers. 
And I am sure she'd like to be 
A boy like Tommy or like me. 

131 



ALL ABOUT BOYS 

A boy is something that makes noise 
And smashes things and loses toys, — 
That is until they're grown up, then 
Folks do not call them boys, but men. 

The things boys like the best are bad 
Or things that make their mothers' sad, 
Like going on the pond to skate 
When 'tis not safe, and stayin' late. 

Most boys don't care so much for dolls — 
The things they like are bats and balls 
And circuses and kinds of play 
Where there's a horse that runs away. 

Small boys are always full of tricks, 
Like tickling you with straws and sticks. 
Or putting on some furs to wear 
And fright'ning you a playing bear. 

My youngest brother's name is Jack — 
Sometimes he takes me on his back 
Just like a horse and gallops round 
And then he spills me on the ground. 

My brother Tommy says that girls 
Ain't good for much but raisin' curls, 
And that folks keep them just for hair 
To stuff the parlor rocking chair. 

132 



And then he says it's only play 
And they don't mean all that they say, 
And when he's grown up to a man 
He'll buy fine things for little Nan. 



PLAYING HOUSE 

There is a play, I guess you wish you knew it, 
And T will tell you just the way to do it, 
If you won't tell — that is, not every one 
For 'tis a secret and such jolly fun. 

You get your Pa to go down to the store 
And get a box big as the parlor door. 
And then you have him put it on the ground 
Where there is grass and shade trees all around, 

And then you tease your Papa more and more 
Until he gets a saw and makes a door 
Low down upon one side where doors should be, 
And then 'tis ready for the family. 

The family is Tommy, Jack and I, 
When they will play, and also Butterfly 
When she's around, (she really is a cat) 
But in our play a dog upon the mat. 

I'm mistress of the house and bake the bread 
And do such things, and Tommy's uncle Ned 

133 



He says that's so that he can sit up late 
And not be sent to bed when it is eight. 

Jack plays that he is Pa, and goes away 

To Boston, so that he can stay all day; 

At night when he comes home to Tommy 'n' me 

He tells about the things he's been to see. 

To make it night you spread your mother's shawl 
Over the door till you can't see at all ; 
Then go to bed, but Tommy says he dreams 
Which is not nice for then he kicks and screams. 

When you get tired of this, you wake and say, 
*' I guess it must be getting almost day," 
And then you look out doors and it is light 
And so you give up playing it is night. 

And when you've played at having dolly sick 
And sending for the Doctor very quick. 
And had a washing day and ironing too. 
And many other things that you may do 

A bell will ring and then it is you'll know 
How quick this play will make the minutes go, 
And you will run into the house and see 
What good things your Mamma has got for tea. 



134 



HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME DOWN THE 
CHIMNEY 

Last Christmas eve, when we were snug in bed, 
And all the lights were out, Tommy, he said, 
** I'd like to know how 'tis, with pack and all, 
That Santa Claus gets down the chimney hole." 

' ' Let's lay awake and see and then we'll know ; 
Won't it be fun to see him squeezed up so?" 
And so we laid awake, but by and by, 
I got to sleeping some with my left eye. 

But still I saw the chimney with my right, 
And by and by there came the queerest sights 
A little man no bigger than Tom Thumb, 
With a little pack no bigger than my drum 

Came sliding down the chimney more and 

more, 
Until he went kerbump upon the floor ; 
And then he looked around the room a spell,. 
But very soon his pack began to swell. 

It kept a swelling, more and more and more. 
Till it was bigger than the parlor door ; 
And then I saw that it was full of toys 
And books and dolls, and things for girls and 
boys. 

135 



And soon the little man had grown so tall 
He didn't seem to be a dwarf at all ; 
And then he took some things out of his pack 
And filled my stocking till I thought 'twould 
crack. 

And then the pack grew small, and small and 

small, 
Until it wasn't bigger 'n' nothin' 'tall, 
And Santa Claus he was a dwarf once more, 
And climbed up back as he had come before. 

Then just as Santa Claus got out of sight 

I opened my left eye and it was light. 

And there were all the things for Tommy 'n' me, 

A-bursting out just as I knew they'd be. 

But when I told him. Tommy laughed, and said, 

I was a foolish little sleepy head. 

But by and by, he said, " It must be so, 

-For Santa Claus had left the things, you know." 



A WISH 

I wish that Pa was Santa Claus 
With reindeer and a pack, because. 
Then he would have such lots of toys 
For all his little girls and boys. 

136 



Then every day would Christmas be 
With lots of fun for Tommy 'n' me, 
We'd hang our stockings every night 
And Pa would fill them 'fore 'twas light. 

Then when I'd grow'd to be a man, 
Just as my mother says I can, 
I would be Santa Claus like him 
And fill boys' stockings to the brim. 



THE SUNBEAM AND THE SHADOW 

A sunbeam from the source of light 
Came flashing down to earth. 
His face was fair, his eyes were bright. 
His heart was full of mirth. 

Right joyfully the sunbeam came 
To swell the perfect day, 
Yet where he fell, it was a shame, 
Dark shadows round him lay. 

*' Why come you here? " a shadow cried, 
And on him darkly frowned, 

* * This is our only place to hide 

For many miles around." 

* * I come to cheer each lonely place 

And turn the dark to dav, 



137 



To light a smile on sorrow's face 
And drive its gloom away." 

'' Poor foolish thing," the shadow said, 
" Earth is no place for day, 

Her life is dark and cold and dread, 

You know not what you say. 

*' I cover up its want and woe 
And wrap the earth in sleep. 
That none may see and none may know 
What countless millions weep." 

The merry little sunbeam laughed, 
" That is not right," he said, 
** I've seen the smart of sorrow's shaft, 

I dry their tears instead. 

Earth hath her sorrows and her joys. 
Her sunshine and her rain. 
But love is worth all life's alloys. 
Its pleasure worth its pain." 

And then the sunbeam shone so bright 
Upon his happy way, 
He pierced the shadow with his light 
And frightened him away. 



138 



CONFESSIONS OF A STREET GAMIN 

Well governor you do look slick, 
But yer can't give me guff; 
I guess you think I be a fool, 
Or not quite up to snuff? 

Yer really want ter know, yer say, 
What we street duffers do? 
Gosh ! if yer ain't the queerest cud 
I ever had to chew. 

Yer want ter put it in a book 
That yer a-goin' to sell? 
Well governor, yer welcome to't. 
But there ain't much ter tell. 

Me dad he was a gintleman, 
A-keepin' of a bar, 
Before he got ter swillin' so, — 
I never hed no ma. 

But one dark night he got so bad 
I had to take a sneak, 
An' while he was a chasin' me 
He fell inter the creek. 

I s'pose you'll think 'twas mighty queer 
I blubbered an' felt bad, 
Yer see I had ter love him some — 
Yer know he was me dad. 



139 



But by-and-by I got a pal, — 
Why, don't yer know, a pard? — 
When I was down upon me luck 
An' things went mighty hard, 

He helped me if he had the swag. 
He alluz was a brick ; 
But pretty soon there came a time 
That made me mighty sick. 

One day we two wuz tossin' cops 
Upon a pavin' stun, 
When up the street there came a cab, 
The bosses on the run. 

And right in front uv that durned team, 

A runnin' fit ter drop, 

Was jest the purtiest little gal. 

It made me knocker stop. 

But Jim he jumped as quick as whiz 
An' snatched the little girl. 
An' then the cab went thund'rin' by, 
An' all was in a whirl. 

But when I got me senses back — 
For somethin' hit me head — 
An' looked around for Jim, me pal, 
He was a lyin' dead. 



140 



I laid right down upon the stones^ 
An' bellowed side er Jim ; 
He was the only pal I had 
An' I'd er died for him. 

Then all the swell folks in the cab 
Got out an' stood around, 
They all took off their hats to Jim 
A lyin' on the ground. 

There was a lady in the crowd 
Dressed up alfired grand, 
With silk an' lace upon her togs 
An' rings upon her hand. 

She went right up ter my poor pard, 
An' then knelt down by him, 
An' held his head upon her arm ; 
That's jest like some them wim. 

She looked so mighty beaut' an' good,. 
A strokin' cully's head, 
Her eyes they were so sorrowful, 
I wished 'twas me that's dead. 

I know I'd been a better chap 
If I had had a ma, 
Or some one good ter talk ter me, 
An' look at me like her. 



14T 



She said it warn't so bad ter die 
If we but loved the Farder 
He's got a swell place in the sky, 
An' He can make us gladder ; 

She said some day that I might go 
And live with that big swell, 
But all them preacher duffers say 
They know we'll go ter hell. 

Well, them air snobs, they did the square 
By me an' my poor pal, 
They dressed him up in dandy togs 
An' made a funeral. 

They got a real howler too, 
What said that God is love, 
An' that he cared as much for Jim 
As any other cove. 

An' there was posies all round Jim, 
He had a bran new suit, 
The first un that he ever had, 
An' everything was beaut. 

An' when the preacher told 'bout Jim, 
How 'twas he got the swipe, 
I saw most all them dandy swells 
A-feelin' for a wipe. 



142 



I couldn't blink a wink that night 
After I douced the glim, 
All I could do was kick about, 
An' blubber 'n' think o' Jim, 

An' loosin' cully seemed to bust 
The luck I'd had a spell, 
I couldn't get a trot to do 
An' papes they wouldn't sell. 

An' then I lost the snuggery 
That we hed hed together. 
An' so I hed ter bunk out doors 
In mighty nippin' weather. 

An' when I couldn't find a snug, 

I jest walked up an' down ; 

The glims they looked so warm an' bright 

In houses up in town. 

It made me sick to look at um, 

An' then I'd go away, 

An' walk, an' walk, an' walk, an' walk. 

Until it got to day. 

Sometimes I'd think uv things I'd heard, 
But they wuz mighty dim. 
About the gov'ner in the sky 
And how folks prayed to him. 



143 



An' then I'd ask him for some grub 
An' togs ter keep me warm, 
An' jest some place ter lay me head 
Inside out of the storm ; 

I didn't ax him for a bed, 
But jest some straws, you see, 
An' then I'd hark an' try ter hear 
If he would answer me. 

But all I'd hear was rumblin' wheels^ 
An' jinglin' horse car bells, 
He never cares for such as me. 
He goes in for them swells. 

About that time I jined the gang,. 
An' then we bust the bank ; 
They was a mighty wicked crowd 
That cussed an' fit an' drank. 

I didn't know how bad they was 

Until we made the deal, 

An' then they'd carved me quick as wink 

Ef I'd a dared ter squeal. 

Then next we tried a big stone front 
Where there was lots of tin ; 
Big Devil Dick, he bust a light 
An' then he put me in. 



144 



I was a-creepin' ter the door, 
Ter let the fellers in, 
When all at once there was a flask 
An' then an awful din. 

But when I got me senses back 
After the shootin' fuss, 
I was down in the hospital, 
With such a jolly nuss. 

Them was about the bulliest days 
That ever I hev hed. 

With such good things to stuff an' swill 
An' such a dozy bed. 

You see the gang had all been tuck 
But Dick, an' he lay low, 
An' I was sech a little duck 
The jedge, he let me go. 

An' when I left the hospital, 
'Twas mighty hard ter leave, 
I was a-lookin limp an' white 
An' hed one empty sleeve. 

But now the luck all comes my way — 
I've got another pard — 
For folks is mighty good ter me 
An' times they aint so hard. 



145 



An' now sometimes I gets a tip, 
A nickel or a dime, 
An' sometimes when the biz is dull 
I get a little time. 

Why don't you know? I am a trot 
Down at the new hotel, 
It is a mighty shiny place, 
-An* ev'rything is swell. 

You've really been a-chalkin' it? 
"Well, if yer ain't a cad ; 
I hope yer've put it rather light, 
Then I won't seem so bad. 

Day, reditor, I'm much obliged 
For such a heap of tin ; 
But that's the sarvants' gong yer hear 
An' I must go ter din. 



146 



POEMS OF OLD NEW 
ENGLAND 



THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD 

Poor are the pilgrims on life's stony way 
Who, turning from the beaten track astray, 
To some secluded spot, or quiet roof. 
Where once perchance they spent their happy 

youth ; 
Who ne'er have felt at each familiar turn, 
With eyes that fill and hearts that throb and 

burn. 
The quiet charms of dear familiar ways. 
The half forgotten joys of other days. 

How well do I recall that happy day 

When turning from the noisy world away 

By quiet lanes that never failed to charm, 

I sought my home, the old deserted farm. 

It was a winsome day in early fall, 

A time when nature broodeth over all 

Her broad domain of fruitful fields and woods, 

And woos the wand'rer in her gayest moods. 

I heard the south wind whisper to the corn, 

Its pennons streamed and rustled back in scorn ; 

Each grain field caught the sunbeams in their 

flight 
And shot them back in mellow amber light ; 
In deeper shades the birches' silver sheen 
Shed softest rays the emerald boughs between, 
The distant hills were robed in gold and dun 
And hazy skies subdued the summer sun ; 

149 



Fair orchards laden with their golden fruit 
And gardens rich in bursting pod and root 
Diversified the scene, and to my eyes 
Seemed like a Peri's dream of Paradise. 
The merry harvesters were all a-field, 
(Keen are the scythes and sickles that they wield), 
With jocund song, the reaper and the mower 
Went through the fields and garnered in the store, 
While ripe'ning nuts, from tall majestic trees 
Came down in showers before the merry breeze, 
Gay squirrels scolding frisked from limb to limb 
And woke the woods and swelled the harvest 

hymn ; 
And as I journeyed through that pleasant lane 
Where peace and plenty seemed to ever reign, 
I thought how sordid is our bitter strife 
For gold beside this quiet country life. 

But now the dear old homestead comes in sight 

Upon the hill above me, on the right, — 

Ah ! can it be the same, the grand old place, 

The mansion on the hill, that oft my face 

In childhood's happy days so eager spied. 

The home that was our father's joy and pride. 

That kin had held two hundred years and more, 

Since first the Pilgrims landed on this shore? 

Or is it that a flood of blinding tears 

And all the growth and change of many years 

Have come between me and the dear old scene, 

150 



And make my youthful palace seem so mean? 
O gold ! that robs this world of half its wealth 
O lore ! that cheats the soul of joy and health, 
I'd blot these weary years from heart and brain 
To live that sweet delusion o'er again. 
But wherefore mourn, or sigh, or think it strange,. 
Earth moves, time flies, man grows and all 
things change. 

'Tis clearer now, I see the gable roof 
Look outward from the elm-tree's verdant woof 
Like some familiar face, and lower still 
The friendly wild-rose on the window sill, 
Where oft I sat when day and toil were o'er, 
And longed to roam the world on sea and shore,. 
And dreamed of love and fame and cruel wars,. 
Awhile 'the night wind whispered to the stars.. 
Ah yes ! I see the woodbine on the ell, 
The towering welisweep that I knew so well, 
And on the barn the same old weather-vane 
That told of yore of sunshine and of rain. 
But half the quaint old roof has fallen in 
And winter blasts have worn its shingles thin. 
While each dejected window-sash complains 
That storms and stones have robbed it of its. 

panes ; 
Upon one hinge the front door grinds and 

squeaks, 
Like some poor human thing it plainly speaks 

151 



Of sad neglect and summer suns and rains 
That make it old and fill its joints with pains. 

Here is the ancient fire-place, broad and tall, 
How cheerful was its firelight on the wall ; 
Here oft I sat on stormy winter nights 
And watched the restless ever-changing lights 
Upon the logs, or traced a tiny spark 
Far up the dingy flue into the dark ; 
'Twas by this stone that grandma used to sit 
Upon those winter eves and drowse and knit, 
While I would watch the stocking as it grew 
And count the stitches while the needles flew, 
And seated by the cosy kitchen hearth 
We passed the hours in jest and merry laugh 
That mocked the fury of the howling storm — 
Then came the thought, how dear a place is 
home. 

Some prudent squirrel leaves his winter store 
Upon the landing of my chamber door, 
And rude rats scamper o'er the floor and hide 
Behind the dingy walls that were my pride ; 
For vermin comes to gloat o'er man's decay. 
And haunt his home when he has passed away. 
But through the broken window dark with mold 
I see the dreamy hills I knew of old ; 
And now it seemeth like a few short hours 
Since first I scaled those silent mountain towers. — 



152 



Majestic hills ! I love thy purple range, 

I love thee now, and thou wilt never change. 

Here is the barn, — Ah ! what a place to play 
When mow and loft are filled with new-mown 

hay, 
And all the air is sweet with clover scent — 
To climb the beams and jump from bent to bent. 
Or search the hay-mows for a stolen nest ; 
Of all the play-rooms known this is the best. 
And when I gaze adown yon winding lane. 
My age departs and youth comes back again. 
I see a barefoot boy in homely dress, 
The prince of that rich kingdom, happiness, 
A brimless palmleaf is his regal crown. 
His ruddy cheeks are tinged with russet brown, 
His sunny face could never wear a cloud, 
No rich estates could make him half so proud, 
His scepter is a leafless maple browse, 
His Majesty is driving home the cows. 

How peaceful is yon meadows' stretch of green. 
In sunset light, the autumn hills between. 
Deep down beneath the grass, by reed and rock 
The little brook sings to the meadow lark. 
Right merrily he sings the livelong day 
To cheer the weary farmer with his lay. 
What pain would fill his heart if father knew 
That witch-grass claimed the fields where clover 
grew, 

153 



That all the meadow hay was filled with swale,. 

His cherished wood-lot stripped for tie and rail, 

That all the pasture-lots were choked with brush,, 

The meadow lowlands grown to reed and rush; 

If he could see the ancient orchard's rows 

Of stately trees uprooted by the blows 

That strip the rotting shingles from the shed 

And shake the crazy rafters overhead, 

That raze the gates and fences to the ground, 

And scatter direst desolation round ; 

If he could see the gruesome foreign hordes 

That gather round our old-time festal boards, 

Who swarm upon these farms and till our fields 

And turn our ancient looms and spinning-wheels ; 

A folk who know no law but fire and steel, 

Who do not glory in the nation's weal, 

Who cannot speak or write our mother tongue, 

Who feel no thrill when freedom's songs are sung, 

A class who hate all forms of government 

And fill this happy land with discontent ; 

Ah ! well for him his humble life was taken 

Before New England homesteads were forsaken.. 



^fc>^ 



'Tis eventide, the shades of night draw near 
And one by one the silent stars appear, 
Those silver tapers that the angels hold 
Above the clouds to view the sleeping wold. 
The night-winds faintly whisper as they pass,, 
A cricket chirps beside me in the grass, 

154 



The elm-tree gently stirs its countless leaves, 

And over all a benediction breathes 

More deep than sleep, more tranquil than the 

calms 
Of some far oasis with breathless palms, — 
But hark ! upon the air so deep and still 
Rude breaks the sound of wheels upon the hill, 
The wheels that bear me from this sweet retreat 
Back to the city, rife with dust and heat. 

Farewell ! farewell ! fair haven of my youth, 
Thou sweet abode of innocence and truth, 
And though my feet may leave thee far behind, 
No chance or change shall blot thee from my 

mind. 
And when at eve the city streets are hot 
Fond memory shall lead me to this spot. 
Then for the din, the rumble and the grind, 
Mine ears shall hear the murmur of the wind ; 
And when at last life's little day is spent 
And death shall claim this form, infirm and bent, 
I beg some friend to whom I once was dear, 
To break the turf and lay the poet here. 
Here 'neath the elm where every idle breath 
Shall murmur low a requiem for death. 
Where first in spring the lilac sheds its bloom 
And last in fall the verdure gathers gloom ; 
That men may know of all the classic ground 
Where poets sleep, the leagued world around,. 

155 



I place New England liigh above the rest, 
I hold this spot the fairest and the best. 



GETTIN' HUM 

There air some mighty purty scenes 

Ter see upon the farm, 

An' there ain't nothin' in the town 

Ter my notion ter charm 

Yer like those homely kentry scenes, 

With all their quiet ways, 

Instead o' everything agog, 

An' everything ablaze. 

I went down ter the city once 

Ter see what I could see. 

An' got alfired lonesome like 

An' blue as I could be ; 

The folks all look so worried like 

An' never stop ter talk. 

An' don't say nuthin' 'bout the craps, 

An' gallup when they walk. 

I didn't see a bit o' grass. 
Or any kind o' land. 
Or anything but bricks and stun 
An' houses built so grand 
You'd hardly dast ter look at 'em, 
An' made so tarnal high 
156 



You'd kinder hev ter hold yer breath 
Whenever yer went by. 

The furniture is all so soft 

Made out o' plush and hair, 

It kinder seemed ter say ter you 

Sit down on me with care ; 

I didn't sit down good and hard 

The whole time I wuz there — 

I tell yer what, I longed sometimes 

Fur my ole straight-backed chair. 

My cousins were so tarnal p'lite 
An' made so many bones 
About my comin' down ter town, 
An' called me Mr. Jones, 
An' axed sech funny questions too,. 
They made me want ter run, 
Fd gin a V ter heard um say 
* How be yer, Jonathan." 

I shook the dust off o' my feet 
When I had stayed a week, 
And got out of that Babylon, 
Where everything wuz Greek, 
An' homes were kept so mighty fine 
You'd think they're made for kings. 
With beds that wouldn't let yer sleep- 
For fear you'd bust their springs. 



157 



When I gut hum 'twas harvest time 

An' there wuz golden corn 

A-standin' waitin' in the shocks, 

An' mother's dinner horn 

Cum ringin' cheery down the road, 

It sounded mighty sweet. 

It seemed ter say, cum home old man 

An' git somethin' ter eat. 

An' there wuz cattle in the fields 

An' punkins on the vines 

An' flaming maples in the woods 

Among the spruce an' pines. 

An' squirrels jumped from limb to limb 

Where there was nuts to spare. 

An' autumn's haze wuz on the hills. 

An' peace wuz in the air. 

An' when I saw our little home 

A-nestlin' in the trees. 

Jest in the sunshine an' the shade 

With jest a bit o' breeze, 

I'll 'low my heart swelled up a bit 

An' kept a-swellin' more, 

Until it fairly bust itself 

With Hannah at the door. 

An' when she hugged me roun' the neck 
An' kissed me on the cheek, 



158 



An' said, ''how be yer, Jonathan," 
I swow, I couldn't speak. 
*Twuz worth a year of city life, 
An* more than kingdom come — 
'Bout all the fun o' goin' off 
Is jest a gettin' hum. 



SONG OF THE PLOUGHMAN 

Bring forth the plough, the frost is out, 
And spring is here without a doubt; 
Upon the cattle put their yoke. 
The field and fallow must be broke, 
For he who reaps in harvesting 
Must sow his seeds in early spring. 

The plough is brought from loft or shed. 
And forth the sturdy steers are led, 
The yoke is placed upon their necks. 
The plough is scoured all free from specks, 
Then Sam, the plough boy, whip in hand. 
Beside the cattle takes his stand. 

Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in, 
Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 



159 



The patient cattle plod along, 

Their necks are bent, the yoke is strong; 

The gleaming plough-share cleaves the earth, 

The burning sunbeams dance in mirth. 

And oft the farmer stops the plough 

And wipes the sweat from off his brow. 

At every turn the plough-boy's *' Gee," 
Across the field makes melody, 
Full well the cattle know his whip. 
They oft have felt its stinging tip. 
Yet spite of muzzles as they pass, 
They stop to nip the tender grass. 

Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin. 
Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in, 
Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward,. 
Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 

The robin greets the farmers' toil 
With notes of joy, and shares the spoil ; 
Across the fresh turned earth he hops. 
Before a luscious worm he stops, 
Then chirps, " this farmer's mighty good 
To plough all day to find me food." 

At noon the plough-boy thunders ** whoa," 
A word that well the oxen know. 
And one they always will obey. 
And they are left to meal and hay ; 



1 60 



Meanwhile the farm hands never fail 
To empty clean the dinner pail. 

Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in, 
Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 

The dinner done they're off again — 
These farmers are no idle men — 
He earns his bread who tills the soil 
By honest sweat and patient toil ; 
Still up and down with ceaseless tread, 
This is the way his babes are fed. 

And when the plough-point strikes a rock 
And sends it back with sudden shock, 
To dig the farmer in the ribs. 
He takes fresh hold upon the nibs, 
And pulls the plough back into place. 
And moves along with cheery face. 

Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in. 
Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward. 
Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 

The weary oxen reek with sweat. 
The farmer's cotton shirt is wet. 
Still up and down he patient goes. 
Turning those narrow clean-cut rows, 

i6i 



Turning the furrows one by one 
Until the long bright day is done. 

Then towards the barn the cattle head 
Where they are stalled and groomed and fed. 
But still in sleep they hear the cracks 
Of Sam's long whip across their backs, 
And vStir uneasy in their stalls 
Until the new milch heifer bawls. 

And e'en the farmer old and wise 

Oft rises in his bed and cries — 

Whoa! Sam, look out, we've struck a rock!" 

And then he hears the kitchen clock 

Just striking three, so down he lies 

And sleep soon holds his tired eyes. 

Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in, 
Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 



BILIN' SAP 

You boys all know how in the airly Spring, 
Wal, say about the time the bluebird comes, 
How 'tis the groun' begins ter thaw an' freeze 
Along the sunny slopes beside the woods, 



An' how the sap goes creepin' up by day 

Inter the limbs an' shoots upon the trees 

An' how the cold at night will send it back 

Agin a-racin' down into the roots 

Ter keep all snug and warm till mornin' comes. 

The snow aint gone 'cept here an' there a bit 

Upon the hills that look all bare and burnt 

Instead o' cold an' kinder lonesome too, 

Like some poor robin that yer see in fall 

After the rest have gone an' snow has come, 

A-hoppin' round upon a leafless limb 

Perkin' his feathers up an' makin' b'lieve 

That he aint cold an* mighty lonesome too. 

It aint so piercin' cold these days except 

By spells, but now an' then the rough March 

wind 
Gits on a rampage an" careers about 
An' howls in at the cracks an' shakes the house 
Like he was mad, — That's Winter's dyin' kick. 

Wal, jest about this time it gits ter look 
Like sugarin', so when the wind gits right 
An' it will freeze by night an' thaw by day, 
Then boys look out fer jest a rush o' sap ; 
'Tis then we git the spiles an' buckets out 
An' set the camp. I tell you what 'tis fun 
This tappin' trees, sendin' the gleamin' bit 
Inter the wood, seein' the shavin's creep 
Out on the bit an' fall upon the snow 

163 



Wet with the life blood of the mighty tree ; 
An' then ter see the sap come spirtin' out 
As bright and sparklin' as the mornin' dew, 
An' then ter hear it drop into the pail 
As stiddy as an ole-time wooden clock — 
A kinder sayin' — drink, drink, drink; 
A drop aint much yer say, wal, no. but then 
When you've a thousand trees a-tickin' so 
You'll find out vsoon it piles the sap up fast, 
An' that's jest what this tale is comin' to. 
When sap has been a-runnin' for a week 
Right smart, that is it does not run much nights. 
The storage tubs an' pans git brimmin' full 
An' runnin' over too, 'tis then the boys 
Go up ter camp ter bile the sap at night. 
But they are used to that 'ere kind o' thing 
An' there aint nuthin' they would ruther do. 

They git a peck o' apples from the bin, 
Somebut'nuts an' some chestnuts from up stairs, 
An' half a dozen ears of popcorn too. 
An' p'raps a dozen eggs to help along, 
An' then they start up to the sugar house ; 
The moon is mebbe three hours high by then 
An' jest a-smilin' out her purtiest, 
Turnin' the snow to sparklin' diamonds 
An' makin' gloomy shadows 'hind the trees. 
The sugar house looks cheerfuller than home 
With its^great fire a-glowin' in the arch, 

164 



An' steam a-steamin' out through every crack. 
Wal, fust they set ter work ter fill the pan 
An' git the fire to goin' good an' hot 
An' then they try to have a little fun. 
The eggs are dropped inter the hoppin' sap 
An' biled, the apples toasted by the coals, 
The chestnuts roasted hot, and but'nuts cracked, 
An' then they spread some blankets on the floor 
Before the glowin' arch where it is warm, 
An' set down for a feast an' story tell. 

And sech tales as them country boys can tell 
Things that they've read out of the garret store 
Of books an' papers on a winter's night. 
vStories of Injun fightin' on the plains, 
An' huntin' grizzlies on the mountain wilds 
An' trackin' antelopes across the snow, 
With jungle tales an' stories of the east, 
An' hand ter hand encounters with the lion, 
An' tigers mad with hunger and with wounds, 
Of buried treasures in the mountain's side, 
An' pirate raids upon the open sea. 
An' all the time the fitful firelight gleams 
An' dances in the arch, sendin' its glow 
Far out inter the gloom, then sinkin' low 
Leaves all the scene in dark mysterious shade. 

An' ev'ry now and then the howlin' wind 
Shrieks in the trees like witches ridin' by, 

165 



Or makes the big old maple limbs ter squeak 
An' groan, then in some sudden lull the crust 
Will crack an' snap like ter the sharp report 
O' that dread rifle that the red man bears, 
An' owls with hideous hoots fill up the gaps. 
An' as each tale grows skeerier than the last 
The boys draw nearer to the cheerful fire 
An' peer inter the gloom with frightened eyes 
An' so they pass the cold un'arthly night 
A-chankin' apples an' a-spinnin' yarns 
An' skeerin' one another nigh to death 
Until the gleamin' stars begin to fade 
An' in the east there comes a yaller streak. 
An' then they pour the syrup in a tub, 
Then hitch it tight upon the ol' hand sled 
An' draw it home jest as the breakin' day 
Begins to chase the shadows o'er the snow. 

MA'S POSY BEDS 

When I come hum from work at noon 

As tired as I can be, 

There is one mighty purty scene 

It does me good ter see, 

An' that is mother's posy beds, 

A-blushin' fit to kill. 

With butterflies and bees around, 

A-drinkin' o' their fill. 

i66 



The air is brimmin' over with 
A hundred different scents 
That come from the syringa bush 
Beside the garden fence 
An' rose-bushes an' lilacs tall 
That grow along the walk, — 
But they aint none o' them so gay 
As my ole hollyhock. 

Somehow I like the good ole kinds 

O' posies fullas well, 

(Instead o' those with Latin names 

That nobody can spell). 

Like mirigold an' asterziz 

An' caliopsis fair, 

An' bleedin' hearts an' arder tongues 

An' ferns an' maidenhair. 

Once when I'ze down ter Bosten town, 

As I wuz goin' past, 

I turned inter a posy place 

Where everything wuz glass. 

An' all the posies looked so pale 

As though they'd like ter die. 

Jest like them little city waifs. 

It made me want ter cry. 

I tell yer what, the country is 
The place ter make things grow, 



167 



No matter what the crap may be. 

The city haint no show ; 

An' as for raisin' human souls 

An' givin' them a breath 

O' God's free air an' sunlight too, 

We beat um all ter death. 



SONG OF THE WOODSMAN 

I hie me away to the forest old 

On a winter's morn when the air is cold 

And the white snow gleams in the morning sun 

And every twig is a diamond, 

The trees are' bending beneath the snow 

That falls in showers as the cold winds blow, 

A heavy load bears the evergreen 

And scarce a leaf of the laurel is seen. 

With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 

The forest ever grows, 

I'll lay it low in the gleaming snow 

To music of my blows ; 

Then gaily sing while the woodlands ring 

With echoes of the ax. 

Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 

And break their sturdy backs. 

I take my stand by the lordly tree 
That now hath stood full a century 

i68 



And raised on high its majestic form 

In the Summer breeze and the Winter's storm ; 

I measure it with a woodman's eye, 

Its towering form 'gainst the Winter sky, 

And choose the spot where the tree must fall 

With a deafening crash, at the woodman's call. 

With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 

The forest ever grows, 

I'll lay it low in the gleaming snow 

To music of my blows ; 

Then gaily sing while the woodlands ring 

With echoes of the ax. 

Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 

And break their sturdy backs. 

The bright ax gleams as it goes up slow 

And then it falls with a ringing blow, 

The sharp blade sinks in the tender sap 

And falling chips leave a bleeding gap, 

And wide and deep grows the woodman's cut 

As he hews away at the royal butt, 

And one by one through the yearly rings 

The bright ax sinks while the woodman sings. 

With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 
The forest ever grows, 
ril lay it low in the gleaming snow 
To music of my blows ; 



169 



Then gaily sing while the woodlands ring 
To echoes of the ax, 

Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 
And break their sturdy backs. 

A squirrel starts from his winter hole 

Where he keeps house in a hollow bole 

And views the stranger with curious eyes, 

(And barks and chirps) as the ax he plies ; 

A snow-bird too from a distant limb 

Flies down to take a peep at him. 

And waits and chirps till the lunch hour comes, 

Then makes a meal on the scattered crumbs. 

With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 

The forest ever grows, 

I'll lay it low in the gleaming snow 

To music of my blows ; 

Then gaily sing while the woodlands ring 

To echoes of the ax. 

Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 

And break their sturdy backs. 

And soon the woodsman with cautious eye 

Will view the top in the steel-blue sky 

To see if the tree has begun to lean, 

Or if a stir in its twigs are seen ; 

Then comes a quake through the noble tree, 

As though it writhed at its destiny, 



170 



And then a creak as the firm wood breaks, 
And the monarch falls and the firm earth shakes. 

With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 

The forest ever grows, 

I'll lay it low in the gleaming snow 

To music of my blows ; 

Then gaily sing while the woodlands ring 

With echoes of the ax. 

Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 

And break their sturdy backs. 

HOW BE YER? 

I don't gin much for city ways 

O' ginning a handshake, 

This taking hold o' people's hands 

As though you thought they'd break ; 

I like to hev 'em grip my hand 

Like 'twas an ax or plow, 

An' gin my arm a wrench an' say 

How be yer anyhow? 

A LAW OF NATURE 

Yer can't plant cabbage seed and get a tater, 
Not in my garden patch, an' that aint Nater, 
An' he who goes around a-sowin' evil, 
Will reap a crap o' pig-weeds from the devil. 
171 



VANITY 

When I see a feller round a-blowin' 

About how much he knows, a kinder crowin* 

Over the saints, and over all creation, 

I'm mighty glad he aint o' my relation. 



OUR SINS 

Our sins are like the weeds we see a-growin' 
Down in the medderlot when we're a-mowin', 
For if there's one a-noddin' in the clover 
There's almost sartin sure to be another. 



VJ2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE CITY OF THE DEAD 

Know you the city of the dead — 

A town of much repute? 
Where never a word by day is said, 

And all the clocks are mute. 

Where joy ne'er comes, nor any woes, 
And sunlight never streams, 

Where from his house no tenant goes 
And all the hours are dreams. 

The streets are narrow in this town, 

The houses. are not tall, 
And they are built so far, far down, 

The turf grows over all. 

Only their domes and turrets show 

Above the grasses green, 
But all are quite alike below 

Where they are never seen. 

And every dweller has his name 

Engraved upon the spire, 
A word of praise unto his fame, 

Or charity, that's higher. 

And people come to read the words, 

But never stay — alas. 
Their only true friends are the birds 

The sunlight and the grass. 



175 



With every year a phalanx comes 

All without sound of feet, 
To swell the countless little homes 

Along the darksome street, 

And some are rich and some ire poor, 

And others great or small. 
But the grass will grow o'er every door 

And cover them one and all. 



THE GUERDON OF SONG 

'Tis not for wealth I sing my simple lays, 
Or e'en for fame or for the critic's praise ; 
But for the joy of feeling and of living 
All that I say, and for the joy of giving. 

He who can feel that by his life he feeds 
A hungry world and fills another's needs. 
E'en though his song may be but idle things 
Has known the joy for which the poet sings. 



TEARS OF ANGELS 

Dark was the night, the cheerless starless night, 

But darker were the shadows round my soul, 

For hope and faith and strength had perished 

all 

And now it seemed there was no truth, no right. 

176 



But while I slept, my sorrows all took flight 
And in my dreams the heavens opened wide, 
And hosts of angels gathered to my side 
And gazed on me with faces wondrous bright, 
While down their cheeks there fell great drops 
like rain. 
And each did strive to soothe my trembling fears 
With thoughts of things above the vaulted 
blue. 

Then breaking morn illumed the earth again. 
And when I sought to trace the angels' tears, 
Behold the grass and flowers were wet with 
dew. 



PAIN'S RECOMPENSE 

By life's alternate joy and woe 
Our sorrows teach us ere they go, 

The highest, noblest lesson ; 
That where true manhood strongest grows. 
Where love in sweetest fragrance blows. 

There sorrow's dewdrops glisten. 



77 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

THE HEIGHTS AND THE DEPTHS 

I would not live upon one changeless plain, 
With joy or sorrow evermore to reign ; 
As blood is darker on the spotless snow, 
So joy is sweeter in the cup of woe. 

god's LOVE 

As tireless as the rivers move 

That water vale and lea, 
So flows the river of God's love 

LTnto a shoreless sea. 

ANGELS OF EARTH 

We think of angels as ethereal things, 
With souls as spotless as their shining wings. 
But unto some, upon this earth 'tis given 
To far transcend the angel hosts of heaven. 

HOME 

Build man a palace turreted and grand. 
Embellish it with gold from India's strand, 
Then furnish it voluptuous and fair. 
Yet 'tis not home without his love is there. 

178 



A FABLE IN ART 

Long years ago, in some forgotten reign, 
There lived a limner wedded to his art. 
With but one purpose burning in his heart ; 
That by his brush, the dreamland in his brain 
Might find a place in galleries of Spain. 
And with this purpose glowing in his heart 
Before his easel sat he years apart. 
Until at last his strength began to wane. 
But with the years a wondrous landscape grew 
Beneath his brush, so subtle was its hue 
Of crimson clouds, no artist could declare 
From whence it came, until one morn they 

found 
The hand grown cold, above his heart a wound 
From whence there flowed the crimson rich and 

rare. 



SATISFIED 

When in this life a soul shall find 
That which shall satisfy the heart and mind 
In all its craving, doubting, hoping, striving, 
Then to that soul is life made worth the living ; 
And in that hour unto that soul 'tis given, 
To know in part the boundless joys of heaven. 



179 



THE POET'S JOY 

A grain of gold without alloy, 

A perfect thing from life's poor alchemy, 

Dearer than wealth or fame or power to me 

I hold this sweet delight, the poet's joy. 

When I can rise above all low annoy 

In matchless flight upon the wings of song 

And sing a strain so deep, so pure so strong 

That all earth's sordid strife cannot destroy 

The waking dream, or kill the living thought. 

When I can feel in truth that I have wrought 

Into the lives and deeds of men to be 

A noble thought, that they may know my power 

When I am gone ; my joy in that brief hour 

Is more than years of baser ecstacy. 



AMPLIUS 

Sweet banished years of joy and youth, 
Of twenty-five this is the last ; 

I cannot weave its fragile woof. 
That day is done, that die is cast. 

I cannot summon childhood days 

And blend them with thy coming years, 

Or place its coronet of flowers 

Upon a brow that smiles through tears. 



1 80 



I cannot pierce those distant days 

That ne'er have seen the tide of time 

And sing a prophet's wondrous lays, 
I only know a poet's rhyme. 

This day God gives thee something grand, 

A life of action and of power, 
A throbbing heart, a willing hand, 

A noble art, a fleeting hour. 

Let every year that marks thy life 
Be filled with noble actions done. 

Let every effort in the strife 

But nerve thee for a greater one. 

Fight bravely onward unto death 

And thou shalt yet be known of kings. 

Let every heart beat, every breath, 
But lift thee up to higher things ; 

Then when thou lay'st thine armor down. 
Amid the battle's dust and heat, 

Thou shalt receive a golden crown, 
A scepter and a regent's seat. 

THE SOUL OF ART 

A strange uncertain mass the colors lay. 

In wild profusion on the pallette board, 

And who would guess that in that mass was 

stored 

I Si 



The matchless glory of an autumn day, 
Or who would dream that mortal would essay 
To catch the light upon a stream that poured 
Down jagged cliffs, where flaming maples 

towered, 
And autumn's mantle over the fair earth lay. 

Yet one I knew took up the lifeless brush 
And spread the paint with such consummate skill, 
That one could see the sunlight dance and thrill 
Along the leaves and hear the torrents rush. 
It was not that the sight could understand, 
It was the soul that moved the artist's hand. 



A HEART OF GOLD 

A beggar by the roadside sat him down. 

His clothes were poor, he had a heart of gold, 

Upon his throne there was a mighty king. 

His robes were fair, his heart was hard and cold. 

Which would you love, the beggar or the king? 

One was a man — the other, well — a thing. 



182 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

THE ANTIPODES 

Hate is a dagger in the human heart, 
And he who hates will surely feel its smart ; 
Love is an angel in a woman's eyes 
That brings the earthly nearer Paradise. 

A LESSON 

If e'en one star in heaven fails to shine 
The earth is darker for that loss of light ; 
If thou canst laugh and smile in sorrow's 
night, 

The earth is brighter for that smile of thine. 

PATIENCE 

Notice how patiently the spider spins. 
Forming his fabric fair by slow degree ; 
And cannot man, as patiently as he, 

Strive on and on and on, until he wins? 

HAVE CHARITY 

Have charity for all thy fellow men. 

Despise not him whom sin hath left alone ; 
When we shall see and know as we are known, 

The darkest soul may prove the fairest then. 

183 



GETHSEMANE 

Ye proud nobility who walk the earth 

In unconcern, where every form of want, 

Of sin and crime and hunger grim and gaunt 

Stand specter-like beside the poor man's hearth, 

And rob humanity of joy and mirth. 

Where God's free sunlight never deigns to 

slant 
Across the floor of dens where demons haunt 

The human soul — O put aside your birth. 
Your heritage of ease, and for one day 
Come forth with me to life's Gethsemane to 
pray; 

Take all this heavy load, the whole world's rue 
Upon yourselves, as Jesus did of old, — 
Then be your hearts like icebergs frigid cold, 

They needs must melt with pity through and 
through. 



THE HIDDEN LIFE 

Deep down beneath the billows' angry sweep. 

Beyond the fury of the raging sea. 

There is a world of silent mystery ; 

There coral mountains lift their hoary heads, 

Where sea shells lie in glowing amber beds. 

And all is wrapped in deep eternal sleep. 

184 



Deep down beneath the world's distress and pain 
Beyond the fury of life's ceaseless storm, 
To noble souls there is eternal calm ; 
There fancy sits in bright illumined caves 
And hoards the treasures of the stormy waves, 
Where quiet truth and beauty ever reign. 



ASLEEP 

WRITTEN FOR OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

The bard was good, and Death it had no fears, 
So he was waiting but to fall asleep ; 
His life had been so full and broad and deep 
With all the rich experience of years, 
And he had seen so much of pomp and peers 
And stood so high upon achievements steep 
That what was left but just to fall asleep. 
They gathered round his bier in grief and tears, 
One placed a wreath upon his pulseless breast, 
One kissed the lips that never more would sing. 
Their tears, their flowers and all that love 
could bring 
Were proffered him e'er he was laid to rest ; 
And while the nations honored him and wept 
The noble bard in sweet oblivion slept. 



I as 



ALBUM LEAVES 

True friends are like the stars in heaven 
That ever steadier brighter glow 
When all is darkness here below, 
For when our sorrows dim the sight 
And all about is dark as night, 
Their loves and sympathies are given. 

True love is like a fragile flower 

That smiling opes its tender eyes 

And breathes sweet fragrance to the skies, 

For though its sphere be great or small 

It sheds a beauty over all 

And cheers and gladdens every hour. 

Kind words are like the gentle rain 
That melts away the ice and snow 
And bids the happy brooklet flow, 
For though the heart be cold and drear, 
A kindly word of hope and cheer 
May melt away its icy chain. 

Good deeds are like the days of spring 
That fill the heart with joy and mirth 
And draw rich beauties from the earth. 
For he who giveth full and free. 
Will find his bread upon the sea 
Within the kingdom of the king. 



1 86 



LIFE IS A DAY 

Life is a day of sun and shower 
And none can tell how it will end, 
A sunny morn may showers send, 
A cloudy dawn will often mend, 
But man must upward, onward wend 
And do his duty hour by hour. 



THE BROKEN HARP 

My golden harp lay broken on the floor. 

My shattered hopes among its parted strings — 
Ah who can know the joy of him who sings, 
Or grief of him whose heart will sing no more, 
'Twas not for me to add unto the store 

Of golden thoughts in sweet pathetic rhyme 
That loftly bards had given to their time- 
Not e'en one thought, one little maxim more ; 
But I had lived to sing a noble strain 

That thought let fall from oif a burning pen 
Might raise the souls and touch the lives of 
men. 

Long years rolled by, the harp ne'er spoke again, 
But love still labored on through grief and 

wrong 
And made one life a sweet immortal song. 

187 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

THE KING AND THE BEGGAR 

A beggar asked for alms beside the palace gate, 
The king passed by and left him poor and 
desolate 
But on the morn he was a king beyond the 

skies, 
The king a beggar at the gate of Paradise. 

DO ANGELS CARE? 

Do angels care for Shakespeare and the rest, 
Have they no kindred with the human breast? 
If they care not for all that man has done. 
How can he care for heaven when 'tis won? 

life's alchemy 

Into the crucible of grief a life was thrown. 
Awhile the bright flames danced around the 
blackened bowl ; 

And in the melting heat the liquid metal shone, 
Until the alchemist beheld a spotless soul. 

TWO riddles 

A little child plays at his mother's knee, 
But who can say what man the child will be? 
An aged pilgrim lays life's burden down 
But has he failed, or shall he wear a crown? 

i88 



THE POET'S ART 

How doth the poet weave his magic song, 

His warp the golden threads of living truth, 
With silver words and phrases for the woof. 

That all may blend in fabric fair and strong? 

He sitteth by his loom and ponders long 

Those things that make or mar the lives of 

men. 
From out the depths of all that he has been 

He summons back the grief, the strife, the wrong 

And lays them all beside the joy of May, 
From every varied hue of mortal strife 
He gathers in each streaming thread of life 

And weaves them all into his perfect lay — 
This is the secret of the poet's art. 
Nearer to God, nearer the human heart. 



HOMEWARD BOUND 

'* We're homeward bound," the sailor sings, 
' * We skim the main with sea-gull wings ; 
We care not for the raging storm 
When we can see the mast-head's form, 
At Neptune's wrath all sailors laugh 
When love is waiting at the wharf. 



itg 



THE TOWER OF SILENCE 

Above the sacred city on the hill 

Where India's cloudless heavens seem to lower, 
And all the earth and air are deathly still, 

There stands dark Dahkma, or the Silent 
Tower. 

Deep-lined against the sky its massive form 
Towers heavenward from the place of ceaseless 
prayer, 

To front the summer sunshine and the storm, 
And evermore to cast its shadow there. 

No voice of gladness stirs its silent sphere, 
And all the place a deathlike stillness keeps, 

Save when the vulture screams and hovers near, 
And o'er her love a dark Parseean weeps. 

No footfall wakes the chamber of the dead 
Save when a corse is laid upon the floor, 

For spirits move with swift and silent tread. 
And Life and Death are parted at the door. 

Here side by side is prince and pauper clay, 
And royal ash lies mixed with common dust, 

Here pomp and glory vanish with decay 
And selfish man forgets his greed and lust. 

Here hoary heads shall lie where babes have slept 
And low degree may mingle in the throng, 

190 



Here friends shall sleep with friends that they 
have wept 
And innocence forget its grief and wrong. 

And all day long across the tropic plains 

Fair forms are borne by Zerdasht Holy Band, 

Up to the hill, in slow and solemn trains, 

While Magi chant the sacred words of Zend. 

Out of the orient land the mourner comes 
Bringing the nation's noblest and its best, 

Bearing the idols of a thousand homes 

Up to the tower where all at last must rest. 

O Dahkma grim ! Thou art the bane of life, 
Thy shadows touch the utmost bounds of earth, 

And fill man's days with bitterness and strife 
And darken every human life at birth. 

But earth and air and sky seem filled with joy, 
Creation smiles and all the world is glad. 

In Nature's heart there is no dark alloy. 
Of all her creatures man alone is sad. 

Ah no ! My soul forgets what Zerdasht saith 
And what the earth and heavens declare to me ; 

That life is but the highway unto death, 
And death the door to immortality. 



191 



THE NOBLEST THING OF ALL 

A wondrous thought my idle tongue let fall 
One day while musing o'er the lives of men — 
Of all the noble deeds that e'er have been 

Which truly is the noblest of them all? 

Was it some deed of arms by Trojan wall, 
Or act of love in some foul prison den, 
Or bold invective from a flaming pen. 

Or gentle ministry beside the pall? 

But in the pause my heart made answer bold, 
I knew a life whose days were dark and cold, 

Each hour seemed fraught with more than soul 
could stand 
Of bitter grief that turns the heart to stone — 
Yet on that face a smile like heaven shone. 

This was the noblest thing of all, 'twas grand ! 



THE ROAD TO FAME 

The road to fame is not up shining stairs 
That lead unbroken to the dizzy heights. 
But he who climbs must leap from cliff to cliff, 
By dangerous ways through weary days and 

nights, 
Until he finds a foot-hold in some rift 
Or niche of fame, where all the world may see, 
Where he can stand and view humanity. 



192 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

THREE SCORE AND TEN 

Only a ripple on the sea of time 

As though 'twere stirred by some uncertain 
breath, 
Then comes the calm e'er it has space to climb, 
And some poor soul has passed from birth to 
death. 

AGE AND YOUTH 

When we are young we long f6r years 
To give us wisdom, strength and truth ; 

When we are old, with smiles and tears 
We oft recall the joys of youth. 

THE DEAD SEA 

This dark and lifeless never changing sea 

Is like a life that knows not charity. 

It drains the verdant earth but never gives, 
And from that circumstance it never lives. 

RICH OR POOR 

The rich man sighs for love and sympathy 

And those dear things that ne'er are bought 

or sold ; 
The poor man sighs because he has no gold 

To build a mansion for his loved ones, three. 

193 



THE MIDSHIPMITE 

Ah yes my lads, 'was long ago, 

It seems an age to me, 
Since good ship Victor spread her sails 

And then put out to sea. 

She was as staunch and true a ship 

As ever sailed the main, 
She'd hold her own on any sea, 

In wind or hurricane. 

And all our crew were stalwart men 

As ever walked a deck, 
Our mate had sailed in unknown seas 

And outlived many a wreck. 

Our captain was a sailor born 

And well he kept his log, 
Yet had one fault, one grievous sin, 

He guzzled too much grog. 

But not of these I tell my tale, 

'Tis of the midshipmite. 
He was the joy of all the ship 

Our solace and delight. 

His eyes were blue as any sea. 
His cheeks were like the dawn, 

And fair his shock of flaxen hair 
As wind e'er blew upon. 

194, 



He was an orphan and a waif, 

Yet happy as a king, 
And it was music to my soul 

To hear him laugh and sing. 

The winds were fair and all went well 

Until we struck a sea 
Along the low Australian coast, 

In latitude twenty-three. 

Where not a ripple stirred the brine 

Or e'en a sail would fill, 
Where all was brazen overhead 

And all was deathly still. 

Three dreary days we sweltered there 

Beneath that sky of brass, 
Three weary days we floated there 

Upon that sea of glass. 

Then suddenly from out the south 
There grew a tiny speck, 
" Haul in your canvas," roared the mate, 
" Or we shall be a wreck ! " 

Old sailors sprang upon the yards 
And quickly shortened sail. 

And in a breath the vessel stood 
Trimmed ready for the gale. 

195 



The typhoon struck us full astern, 
Stout masts bent down like reeds, 

She rose and fell, then rose again 
To meet old ocean's steeds. 

In serried ranks they charged her deck, 
They drenched the scattered crew. 

And lower still the mastheads bent 
As still the tempest grew. 

But good ship Victor laughed to scorn 

The winds that blew so free. 
And raised her crest above the waves 

And bounded o'er the sea. 

Then staggering upward from below 

Our drunken captain came, 
His bloodshot eyes seemed filled with fire, 

His swarthy cheeks aflame. 

' What means this coward crew! " he cried, 
* * What ! fear you such a gale ? 
All hands aloft upon the yards 
And set the topmost sail. 

What then my lads, you will not go? " 

The frenzied captain cried, 
' I'll teach this crew to disobey — 
Bring out my old rawhide ! " 

196 



The middy stood bewildered there 

Uncertain what to do, 
He saw the captain's sullen glare, 

The darkly frowning crew ; 

He saw the snow white canvas gleam 

Upon each straining mast, 
He heard the beating of his heart 

Above the howling blast. 

Then like a hound the captain sprang, 
And forward sprang the mate 

To snatch the middy from his grasp — - 
Ah God ! too late ! too late ! 

He seized him fiercely by the throat — 

My blood ran cold in me, 
Then hurled him far across the deck 

Into the raging sea. 

A wild, wild cry, like a sea gull's scream, 

Fell sharply on the air, 
And a stifled groan from man to man 

Went upward like a prayer. 

No boat could live in such a sea, 
No hand but God's could save. 

He rose upon the billow's crest. 
Then sank beneath the wave. 



197 



A moment more and far away 

I saw him rise and dip, 
And when the midshipmite went down 

He beckoned to the ship. 

We never saw the lad again 

Or heard his merry song, 
And all our hearts were filled with grief 

And all the ship seemed wrong. 

But in the watches of the night 

Our wretched captain swore 
He heard the middy's cry for help 

Above the deafening roar. 

And when the morning came again 

With breeze and balmy air, 
He saw his form upon the waves ; 

His hand still beckoned there. 

Thus wore the weary voyage on 

Until we entered port, 
With changing winds and fickle seas 

And all things out of sort. 

We lay in port a weary week 

And then put out to sea, 
The middy followed in our wake, 

All was adversity. 

198 



The winds blew east the winds blew west 
They then blew north and south, 

The sea was smooth the sea was rough, 
And it ope'd its yawning mouth. 

We shifted sail and tacked and turned 
To please the powers that be, 

Until we reached that selfsame coast 
In latitude twenty-three. 

And there we hung upon that sea 

As we had done before, 
As lifeless as a phantom ship 

Beside a phantom shore. 

Then once again there came a speck 

From out the brazen south. 
And once again his steeds rose up 

When Neptune blew his breath. 

We did not hear the demon come, 

It came with noiseless feet, 
Until the sea about the ship 

Was all one boiling sheet. 

Until the tempest struck the ship 
And stripped her of her sails, 

Until the monsters of the deep 
Were pouring o'er our rails. 

199 



We tried to keep her to the wind — 
She would not mind her wheel, 

The billows tossed her bow about 
And made her rock and reel. 

Still louder and still louder grew 

The tempest's mighty roar, 
And all that time our helpless ship 

Swept onward toward the shore. 

' It is the lad! " our captain cried, 
'* That stirs this angry sea, 
I see his hand above the mast, 
It beckons unto me." 

We heard the breakers on the shore 

Above the howling gale, 
And fearless hearts grew cold with fear, 

And swarth}^ cheeks grew pale. 

Swift as a mountain avalanche. 

Dread messenger of grief. 
Our good ship skimmed the rushing seas 

And struck upon the reef. 

And where she struck the breakers lay 

Like snow-fields, but alas ! 
Beneath their foam were jagged rocks — 

Her hull broke up like glass. 



Her tall masts fell like broken reeds 

Into the boiling brine, 
And hull and bar and canvas lay 

Along the dread snow line. 

Half stunned and bleeding, on a spar, 
With knotted ropes made fast, 

Made sport of by the cruel waves, 
Derided by the blast, 

I tossed upon the angry sea 

Until its wrath was gone, 
At morn it left me on the strand, 

Half naked and alone. 

I saw the wreck along the shore 

By mighty billows rolled, 
T saw her timbers on the sand, 

Amid the slime and mold. 

And in the pauses of the blast, 
The breakers seemed to say, 
* Vengeance is mine," Jehovah saith, 
*' I surely will repay." 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

ONLY A PEBBLE 

Only a little pebble on a rocky strand 
Roll'd by the restless sea till it shall be but sand ; 
Only a little life upon existence's shore 
Tost by the tides of time till it shall be no 
more. 

man's littleness 

Man serves his generation and his day, 
But time, it stretcheth e'en from aye to aye ; 
And his great world, where boundless oceans toss, 
Is but an atom in the universe. 

AN ESTIMATE 

In youth we ask if he be sharp of wit, 
Or rich, or famed before we call him fit; 
In age we ask if he has suffered long 
And nobly done his part through praise or 
wrong. 

THE FAIREST HAND 

The fairest hand may not be soft and white, 
Encased in gloves, neat-fitting to the arm ; 

The hand of toil may be a fairer sight 
When it holds charity within its palm. 



A QUERY 

If nature feels the thrill of might 
In every leaf and blade and flower 
That struggles upward toward the light 
Obedient to some hidden power ; 
Why does man grovel in the dust 
And foster greed and pride and lust, 
Instead of reaching up and striving 
Toward a higher, nobler living ? 



THE STREAM OF LIFE 

I stood at morn upon the crowded street 

Where men of every clime and country throng, 

Where rich and poor and high and lowly meet, 
And mingle in the tide that sweeps along, 

And sought to read upon that troubled sea 
Where righteousness went side by side with 
wrong, 

The hopes and fears of all humanity ; 

And this became the burden of my song. 

Oh ! darkly rushing stream, one moment stay. 
And let me linger on life's sunny shore, 
And dip more deeply into human lore. 

And learn to love and trust and truly weigh 
The things of life ere it shall be no more — 
But still the stream swept onward as before. 

203 



BROKEN RAILS 

The swift express that never fails 
Sweeps onward to its journey's end, 

And wife and child and happy friend 

Look forward to the city's pales, 

Unconscious of those broken rails. 
A plunge, a crash, no time to slack, 
The swift express has jumped the track, 

And shrieks and moans and dying wails. 
And fearful flames with lurid light 
Make hideous the coming night. 

No wonder that the brave heart quails 
Along life's dark uncertain track, 
Man knoweth not what hour to slack 

Or where to find the broken rails. 



TO PADEREWSKI PLAYING 

'Tis vain for me to praise thy matchless power 
Strange dweller in a land of mysteries, 
When thou dost lean across the snowy keys 

And fill my soul with feeling's richest dower, 

Long years of baser life in that sweet hour 
Are awakened by the magic of thy strain, 
When tender love and joy and bitter pain 

Sweep o'er my soul, like breezes o'er a flower. 



204 



O smite the keys and to my fevered soul 
From out thy life let such an anthem roll 

That I shall hear and see and understand 
The mysteries of life, teach me thy fire 
And I will string my poor impassioned lyre 

And sing the world an anthem new and grand. 



UPON THE HEIGHTS 

I stood at evening on the solemn heights, 

Upon the spot where earth and heaven meet, 
I saw the broad earth lying at my feet, 

Her bosom set with myriad twinkling lights, 
I heard a church bell tolling sacred rites, 

And faint and far a nightbird's plaintive call, 

I felt the love that broodeth over all 

And winged my soul to new and higher flights. 

It was not night, mine eyes were growing dim, 
I stood upon the hoary heights of years. 
Above the plain of youthful joys and fears 
And saw e'en to life's dark horizon rim ; 

All things were plain, the darkest clouds were 

riven, 
And hosts of stars illumined the gates of 
heaven. 



TRUE RICHES 

Man is the mighty arbiter of fate, 

The prince of power, of pleasure and of art ; 

From out himself he rules the human heart, 
And fills his little world with love or hate. 
The poor man stands beside the rich man's gate 

And wonders if a mansion in the skies 

Could give more pleasure to his hungry eyes, 
The owner grumbles o'er his broad CvState. 

It is not what we have that gives content. 
But what we give unto another's need — 
The nude we clothe, the hungry that we feed, 

And if we want above what Heaven hath sent. 

The rich man's gold shall make him doubly 
poor 

If beggars turn them hungry from his door. 



206 



PEBBLES AND SHELLS 

WISDOM 

Happy is he who takes life as it seems, 
Nor seeks to pierce the vista of his dreams, 
But he who looks for wisdom's priceless dower 
Shall wound his hand upon a thorny flower. 

APPEARANCES 

A coat of rags oft holds a heart of gold 
And kindliness beyond our estimate ; 
While cassimere oft covers up the hate 

And pride and vice of hearts unkind and cold. 

A DAY IS A STITCH 

A day is a stitch in the woof of time 

And if you live it wrong, 
'Twill mar all the days of the year that chime 

And make your life less strong. 

LOST HOPES 

Full many a gallant ship I send to sea 
To battle with the wind and rain ; 

And some of them come bravely back to me, 
But more are never seen again. 

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